


Time On My Hands

by murron



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 06, Time Travel, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-13
Updated: 2011-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-19 08:52:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murron/pseuds/murron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raphael traps Dean and Cas in 1943.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers: up to 6.16  
> standard disclaimers apply
> 
> a/n: Set at some generic point after _The French Mistake_

**The Arrival**

Dean woke up in a field with wheat stalks crushed all under his back. He stared at the dusky sky and slow clouds, struggling to understand what he saw. A crow winged past overhead and all around Dean wheat bent with the wind, rustling softly.

How the hell did he get here?

Dean lifted his head and winced at a sharp pain in his spine. As he pushed up on his elbows, the muscles in his back twanged and clutched as though he’d fallen from a great height. Which he had, Dean realized. Yes, he remembered. He’d been fighting demons in the back of a warehouse and one of them had pushed him off the loading dock. Thinking back, Dean recalled Sam’s panicked face as he went over the edge.

He should have hit the parking lot and cracked his head on the blacktop, but instead he landed on a flattened ring of wheat. Better than waking up in a grave but still. With a grunt, Dean climbed to his feet and surveyed the expanse of the field.

The wheat was high, reaching to his chest and running for a mile before it hit a line of dark trees. No landmarks.

Dean rolled his shoulder to relieve his aching back. Now that he’d gotten over his surprise, he felt the old frustration well up. He’d been shazamed around the country too many times to wonder who was behind this. Why the angels would dump him in wheatbelt central was beyond him though. Unless this was another of Balthazar’s ‘plans’. The mere thought put Dean in a murdering mood.

Watching the swaying wheat, Dean braced for an attack of whoever brought him here. When nothing happened except for the crickets chirping louder, he pulled out his cell and flipped open the display. No signal.

“Fucking brilliant,” Dean muttered. One option left.

“Cas.” Dean thought about Sam, caught in a fight without back-up and his stomach tightened into a cold knot. “Castiel. Pick up the bat-phone, I need a lift.” He stretched his back again, felt the vertebrae pop between his shoulders. “Come on, dude, you know me. If I have to hitchhike out of hick-town you’ll never hear the end of it.”

Dean checked over his shoulder, waiting for the tell-tale flutter of wings until it became clear that no-one would answer his prayer. That, at least, didn’t surprise him. He simply had to hope that Sam had kept his wits about him. Awesome. Jamming his phone back into his jeans, Dean plunged into the field, pushed at the wheat-stalks with his arms and cracked them under his boots.

 

: : :

 

Dean struck out for a gap in the trees, pushing through the wheat and pulling his legs from snares of bindweed. Once he came out of the field he spotted a single lane of rutted dirt.

“Hurray civilization,” Dean muttered. He followed the track through the wood, passed under the shadow of oak trees, and came out on top of a slope.

The dirt road plunged down into an orchard. Some fifty yards away, the roofs of a farmhouse and shed rose above the trees. Beyond that, Dean saw more fields and clumps of trees clustering along the line of a river. No sign of other houses, let alone a city skyline. Of course they had to dump him in the boonies.

Overhead, the sky was growing darker, a sickle moon showing in the indigo blue. Dean felt the chill of the evening air and his skin itched where the wheat had scratched it. “Your brothers are a bunch of dickheads, Cas,” Dean muttered. “Just so you know.”

As he started down the road, Dean hoped Cas would kick Raphael’s ass and deport his minions to another galaxy. It would mean a scrap of peace for him and Sam and no more surprise cruise-trips. Unless Cas was behind this.

Dean rubbed his itching neck. He didn’t like the idea but considering what had happened with Balthazar, could he really trust Cas’s loyalty? How well did he know Cas these days? The question left a sour taste in Dean’s mouth all the way down the slope.

 

: : :

 

Once he reached the far side of the orchard, Dean rechecked his phone without success. He headed for the house, brushing wheat-husks from his hair and smoothing down his shirt. Smoke curled from the chimney and there was a light on in one of the downstairs rooms. By the time Dean climbed the steps of the porch, the clouds behind the roof had taken on a blood-orange glow. Blackbirds bickered in the orchard.

As Dean reached the front door, a wave of cinnamon and vanilla washed over him, filling his nose with the smell of homebaking. One of the windows had to be open because he heard the clutter of cutlery even on the doorstep. Searching in vain for a doorbell, Dean rapped his knuckles on the screen door. When no-one answered, he knocked again and called out.

“Hello?

The clinking of plates stopped and a second later, Dean heard footsteps coming closer. The door behind the screen opened slowly and a small woman peered through the crack.

“Yes?” she asked. “Can I help you?” She looked so wary Dean was sure she’d shut the door in his face.

“Please ma’am,” he hurried, showing his empty hands. “I’m sorry to disturb you but my car broke down some ways down the road. Do you think I could use your phone?”

The crack in the door didn’t widen and the woman still stared hard at his face so Dean smiled, hoping he looked fairly harmless.

“Your car broke down?” she asked.

“Yes m’am.”

She hesitated so long Dean became certain she’d send him packing but eventually the woman unlatched the fly-screen.

“All right.”

 

: : :

 

“Phone’s in the hall,” she said, pointing to the left. As Dean walked into the house, she stepped back and crossed her arms over her chest. Dean made sure to keep his distance as he walked past her. The cake smell was stronger inside, the scent of caramelized sugar filling the rooms.

“Thank you,” Dean said and smiled some more. “You’re a life-saver.” That actually got him some dimples on her cheeks.

On a small table, Dean spotted a vintage phone with a plastic cord and a rotary dial. Dean picked up the handle and dialed Sam’s number but the only thing he got was a long-drawn, shrill beep. He frowned and tried Bobby’s number instead. Same thing.

“Can’t get through?” the little woman asked just as Dean hung up. He felt his jaw clench, curses pushing up onto his tongue.

“It’s probably the lines,” she said. “We’d trouble for some weeks now.”

“Naturally,” Dean muttered.

“I’m sorry?”

“Never mind,” Dean said and turned. “Listen, is there a town nearby? Some place I could walk to?”

The woman drew closer. “Well you could walk to River but that’s eight miles,” she said. “It’ll be full dark till you’re there and Roy will already have closed the shop.”

Dean nodded like he’d expected no other answer. “You wouldn’t have a car by any chance?”

“My son has it,” she said, putting emphasis on ‘son’. “He’ll be back soon.”

Dean would have loved to ask how soon was soon but he didn’t want to scare her. “Perhaps he can drive me to River?”

The woman pulled her lower-lip between her teeth and clutched her elbows. Dean thought she might be on the far side of forty; there were quite a few lines at the corner of her eyes and silver streaks in her curly hair. He’d already guessed she was alone in the house. He couldn’t blame her for being distrustful.

“I’m sorry,” Dean repeated. “I won’t trouble you any longer. But if you don’t mind, maybe I could wait outside? Ask your son for a ride when he comes home?”

“I suppose,” she said.

“Thank you.” Taking care to leave ample space between them, Dean walked back to the door. “By the way, my name is Dean Winchester.”

He was already at the screen door when she told him to stop.

“Dean,” she called. “Are you a decent fellow?”

Dean smiled, for real this time, and wondered if anyone had ever asked him that question. “I do my best most days.”

The woman seemed to consider this. “Do you like pie?” she asked

Dean laughed, he couldn’t help it. “Yes m’am.”

“Then come along,” she said. “You can wait for Alfred in the kitchen.”

 

: : :

 

The woman, who introduced herself as Mattie Cavender, sat Dean down at a formica table and put a slice of apple-pie in front of him. It smelled like heaven and it was warm enough the whipped cream melted on top of the crust. Dean could have wept because at no time in his life had he felt less like eating. His gaze kept straying to the kitchen window, hoping for the telltale gleam of headlights.

“Where are you headed Dean?” Mattie asked and started to make room on the table. Apples cluttered every free space in the kitchen: Apples in baskets, apple slices in bowls, mounts of apple peels on the newspaper that covered the table. Applesauce was cooking in a huge pot on the stove, which accounted for the Christmassy smell Dean had caught on the porch.

“Just driving,” Dean improvised and took a bite of pie to stall. “My boss gave me a couple a days off and I thought I take my wheels for a spin.”

Mattie shot him a look then continued to sweep apple peels into a bucket. Dean had a feeling he’d said something weird. “Nice place you got here, Mrs. Cavender,” he said, trying to change the topic. He didn’t even lie, Dean liked the kitchen. Like the telephone it seemed a bit on the old-fashioned side, with a gas stove and a small baby-blue fridge. There even was a hot water heater above the sink. Mattie might have apples coming out of her ears but it didn’t look like she had much money.

“Thank you.” Mattie brushed the last peels from the table and wiped her hands on her apron. “Not the best time for a roadtrip, don’t you think?” she asked. She had some coffee bubbling on the stove and poured Dean a mug. Dean thought about asking for a shot of whiskey, then decided not to stretch his luck.

“Yeah, those gas prices shot through the roof,” Dean agreed although he had no clue what she was talking about. “Took all last month’s wages to get my baby this far.”

Mattie raised her brows but said nothing, picking up her own coffee mug from beside the stove. Dean knew he walked on thin ice; a few more questions and he’d be caught out. How the hell would he explain that he didn’t even know which state he was in? He really wished junior would shag ass.

Dean lifted his coffee and his gaze fell on the newspaper Mattie had used to protect the table. Dean frowned, reached out and pulled the paper closer. He looked at a grainy picture and the caption above it and read it twice before the mug slid from his hand and crashed on the floor.

 

: : :

 

Dean slammed out of the house, the screen door banging shut behind him. He’d probably spooked Mattie ten ways from Sunday but Dean was too freaked out to care. The newspaper’s picture still swum before his eyes, a black-and-white shot of two men in suits, herding a third guy down the curb. Dean hadn’t seen their faces; the suits both wore hats and their prisoner had ducked his head away from the camera. The headline repeated in Dean’s head, fat black letters jumping out at him.

144 SEIZED IN CITY AS DRAFT DODGERS; 638 Arrested in Nation as the F.B.I. Intensifies Its Drive Against the Slackers 144 SEIZED IN CITY AS DRAFT DODGERS.

Considering that the newspaper was dated July 12th, 1943, Dean had a good idea which draft they were talking about.

Clutching the porch’s railing with both hands, Dean struggled for air. Flushed back to 1943. Dean wished he got it wrong but he couldn’t fool himself. Apart from the stains of apple-juice, the paper had looked brand new. Fresh off the press. Dean thought about Mattie’s kitchen, the gas stove and the rotary phone and squeezed his eyes shut. The pie sat like a stone in his stomach.

 _What now?_ he thought. _What now?_

He heard the screen door open behind him, followed by soft footsteps on the porch.

“Are you alright son?” Mattie Cavender asked.

Dean swallowed, his hands wringing the railing as if they could choke it. “Yeah,” he managed. “I’m sorry about the coffee.”

“No need to apologize.” She seemed to wait for something else but Dean didn’t trust his voice just then.

 _Calm down,_ he told himself. He’d timetraveled before, he’d always made it back.

Only on his last trips through the wormhole, the angels had kept him on a bungee. Dean couldn’t shake the feeling that they didn’t bother this time. Why did they do it? Why dump him here, now? Was it another lesson? Or did they not even want him; did they remove him to get to Sam?

Dean’s heart beat hard against his ribs, panic threatening to spill. He opened his eyes, focusing on the options that sprang to mind.

He had to get to town and fast. He needed supplies, myrrh and holy oil and, damn _,_ he didn’t even have his journal. Chances were he would remember the angel summoning ritual if he focused but then what? Could he even call Cas through time?

His thoughts were still chasing tails when he noticed a speck of something pale at the top of the slope. Emergency plans screeching to a halt, Dean let go off the railing and straightened up. Someone hurried downhill toward the orchard with their coat-tails flapping. In the pale blue twilight, Dean had no trouble recognizing the newcomer. Relief washed over him and he sent a silent thank-you to whoever might be listening.

Floorboards creaking under her shoes, Mattie Cavender shifted behind Dean’s back. Dean hoped she hadn’t spotted the new arrival. He turned around and to his surprise, saw her face had softened, the suspicion gone from her eyes. Dean opened his mouth but for once couldn’t think of a word to say.

Mattie Cavender nodded as if she understood.

“You can come back inside if you want to,” she said quietly. “No-one’s going to bother you here.” With that, she disappeared into the house and just in time too. When Dean turned back, Cas came out of the orchard and strode toward the house. Dean wasted no time, jumped down the porch and met him halfway.

“Cas,” he said. “Damn, you had me worried for a minute.”

To his surprise, Cas rushed up to him and gripped his shoulders hard enough to hurt. His face looked harried, a deep frown carved between his brows. “Dean. Are you alright?”

“What? Ow!” Dean yelped, struggling against Cas’s grip. “Yeah, I’m okay. You’re breaking my arm here.”

Cas’s fingers dug into his biceps and for a weird second, Dean thought Cas would hug him. He stiffened, a surge of heat rushing up to his chest, but in the end Cas only exhaled a short breath and let go of him.

“Sam called me. He said you disappeared.”

“Yeah, I called you too.” Dean rubbed his shoulder. “What about Sam? Is he okay?”

“They must have lost you,” Cas muttered, ignoring Dean’s question. Still frowning, he reached out and touched Dean’s neck, fingertips brushing one of the cuts the wheat had left there. Dean pushed Cas’s hand away, the muscles in his body winding tight with worry.

“Cas,” he repeated. “How is Sam?”

Cas blinked as if he heard the question for the first time. “Sam is fine,” he said. “By the time I got there, he’d killed one demon and the others had fled.”

“Good,” Dean muttered. That was one less worry weighing on his heart, at least. Cas took a step back, his gaze flickering to the orchard. “Care to tell me what’s going on?” Dean asked.

“Raphael,” Cas answered and yeah, that explained a lot. Castiel’s tone when he said his brother’s name spoke volumes too.

“What does he want with me now?” Dean growled.

“I don’t know,” Cas said and his face pinched even more. “Revenge probably.”

With a sinking heart Dean recalled the night they’d trapped Raphael in a circle of holy fire. It figured that the bastard would carry a grudge.

“Awesome,” Dean muttered and felt queasy. Cas still squinted into the rows of apple trees as if he suspected someone to hide there. Speaking of which.

“Wait,” Dean said and twisted around. “If Raphael wanted to pay me back, why didn’t he just send his goons?”

“I thought he did,” Cas mused.

“But?” Dean prompted.

“I sense no-one.”

Dean clenched his jaw, eyes drawn to the thickening shadows inside the orchard. Oh he had a bad feeling about this.

“Raphael,” Cas muttered. “I wonder...”

Shivering, Dean turned away from the trees. “Screw it,” he said and grabbed Cas by his coat. “We can figure it out later. Let’s get the hell out of Dodge.”

“Yes,” Cas agreed, but he still looked troubled. He placed two fingers against Dean’s forehead and Dean closed his eyes, expecting the old feeling of the ground being whipped out from under his feet. Nothing happened, though. He felt the soft pressure of Cas’s fingertips, breathed the earthy, clean air of Mattie’s orchard and nothing changed.

Dean opened his eyes and looked into Cas’s surprised, pale face.

“That can’t be good,” Dean muttered. Cas drew a breath and his eyes narrowed. This time, Dean could feel Cas’s grace swarm down his skin like an army of ants.

“Hold on,” Cas advised and they were off.

 

: : :

 

They touched down in the field, in the same spot Dean had crashed an hour ago. Under any other circumstance, the look of sheer bafflement on Cas’s face would have been fun but now it made Dean’s stomach churn.

“Cas?” he asked and shrank back when Cas’s eyes flashed bright blue.

“Son of a bitch,” Cas growled and the flash of grace faded. “He sealed it.”

Dean swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Sealed what?” he asked. Although he knew. The second they returned here, he’d known.

“The way back,” Cas said and Dean felt his stomach swoop down low.

“Is that even possible?” he asked, thinking that God gave the angels some seriously unfair perks when he made them.

“Apparently, yes.” Cas scowled at the wheat and to Dean’s surprise, loosened his tie with a tug. “This is very inconvenient. We’re at a critical moment and Raphael knows it. He—”

“He trapped you here,” Dean cut in, horror growing with every word Cas said. Cas snapped around and stared at him, startled.

“He made you follow me and he trapped you here,” Dean repeated and Cas’s face told him all he needed to know. Dean hadn’t been the target. He’d been the bait and Cas had swallowed the ruse  hook and sinker. The poor bastard looked like the truth just hit him over the head with a sledgehammer.

“There has to be a way,” Cas said but he didn’t sound certain, not at all.

“Jesus,” Dean breathed and buried his face in his hands. He couldn’t believe the mess they were in.

“He can’t have closed all the passages,” Cas continued. “It’s not possible.” Something in his face hardened and his gaze slipped up to the sky. The first stars were showing there. “Not possible,” Cas repeated, exhaled and tilted his head, listening.

“Tell me you know how to fix this,” Dean said.

“I have to find a breach,” Cas answered and looked at him. “And I have to travel fast.”

“Without human baggage you mean,” Dean clarified and Cas pressed his lips into a line.

Dean didn’t have to think about it. “Go.”

“Dean.”

“ _Go._ I want to finish that pie anyway.” Cas raised a brow and Dean nodded. “Just make sure you pick me up before you wing it back to the next century.”

Cas held Dean’s gaze but Dean could feel the air rippling around them, a subtle sign of Cas unfolding his wings. “I wouldn’t leave you behind.”

“I know that,” Dean said but by the time he’d finished, Cas was already gone.

 

**Week I**

Missouri in late summer didn’t skimp on the beauty. In the mornings, Dean watched the fog hover over the fields and the road until the sun burned it away. The days were blue and clear, filled with the clucking of chicken and music from Mattie’s records.

For two days, Dean worried himself sick and buzzed around like a fly caught in a bell-jar. On the third morning, he picked up a tool box from Mattie’s shed and started fixing the rotting floorboards on her porch. Mattie told him he didn’t have to but Dean insisted. He didn’t mind the work and it gave him something to do. Once he got started, he found other tasks around the farm that needed doing so he got to it. Mattie set him up in the guestroom and told him he was welcome to stay. He never mentioned his broke down car (which didn’t exist) and she didn’t ask.

Dean pried rotten floorboards from the porch, he prepared the new planks that had been waiting in the shed, he sawed and sanded and hammered until his shoulders ached and his shirt was soaked with sweat. At night he sat on the porch and watched the road that led to the fields until his eyes slipped shut.

 

: : :

 

On day five of his stay, Dean rode shotgun in Frank Mosley’s truck, a dozen crates of apples rattling in the back. They’d been picking fruit all morning, Frank coming over to help because Mattie couldn’t afford any farmhands. The Mosley’s farm was about five miles down the road which made them the closest neighbors.

As Frank’s truck thudded along the grass, Dean braced his feet in the footwell and rode out the bumps. He had his window rolled down and his elbow sticking out of the car. The truck’s cabin was drenched with brown light falling through a dirty windshield and full of the smell of Frank’s smokes.

“Here we are,” Frank said, chewing the words around his hand-rolled cigarette. The truck swerved out of the orchard and onto the road. Frank let the engine idle and Dean opened the passenger door. With the slipstream gone, the summer’s heat closed around him like a fist. He climbed out of the truck, went around to the car’s back and snatched the empty harvesting bags from the flatbed. When he came back to the front of the truck, Frank was wiping the nape of his neck with a handkerchief.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Is it me or is it hotter than the devil’s own ass?”

Dean grinned. “That the way you talk in front of your daughters?” he asked.

“’Course not,” Frank said and winked. “Anyone tries to blaspheme in front of my girls I’ll bash their head in.”

“Nice.”

“Ain’t I just.”

Frank tossed the butt of his cigarette out onto the road and put his hands back on the wheel. “You got to come round for dinner some time,” he told Dean. “Darlene makes a mean meatloaf.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.” Dean said. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the Cavender’s car, a Ford pickup, parked outside the shed. Mattie’s son Alfred was unloading a box of groceries from the front-seat, bending awkwardly at the waist to favor his stiff leg. Despite the heat, Alfred wore his hat and suit, looking neat as ever.

Dean remembered his introduction to Alfred the night he’d appeared on Mattie’s doorstep. Alfred Cavender had come home to find a stranger in his mother’s kitchen, filling up on her apple-pie and telling some shady story about a curtailed roadtrip. Predictably, Dean and Alfred didn’t click. Junior didn’t trust Dean and Dean couldn’t even blame him.

Realizing he was being watched, Alfred shot Dean a glare, clamped the box under his arm and limped up the porch-steps.

“Don’t mind him,” Frank advised as they watched Alfred disappear into the house.

“Nah,” Dean said. “I’ll be out of his hair soon anyway.”

“Yeah, sure you will.” Frank clucked his tongue and took his foot off the break, the truck slowly rolling away. “The offer stands,” he said. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Dean gave him a thumbs-up, shouldered the harvest bags and headed for the house. It surprised him how easily he fit in with these people. Then again, getting along with Frank and Mattie wasn’t hard. Frank reminded Dean of Sid and hurtful as that was, Dean still enjoyed his company. Mattie made him welcome from day one, feeding him, giving him her late husband’s clothes. Major Elmer Cavender had shipped out with the first troops to Europe and he’d died in the first days of the US involvement in the war. Mattie had shown Dean the telegram with Elmer’s death notice and told him war was terrible. Dean knew she assumed he was a draft dodger and didn’t judge him for it. He didn’t set her straight because he hoped what he’d said to Frank was true: he’d be off soon. Besides, she would never believe him if he told her the truth.

As he carried the harvest bags to the shed, Dean thought that Sam would like Mattie a lot. Dean had always been a loner, but Sam needed people, friends outside their line of work who made him believe that he gave up his white picket fence for a reason. There had been a time when Sam had made an effort to stay in touch with civilians, but he’d stopped somewhere along the way.

Dean slung the harvest bags onto a hook and made a decision. When he returned to his own time, he’d make sure Sam would socialize again. He’d give him the opportunity to be with folk, have fun, sample the good life they were struggling to protect.

Maybe it would even distract him from the wall in his head.

 

: : :

 

The next morning, Dean stood in Mattie’s bathroom, shaving with a straight razor. The first time he’d used it, he came away with more cuts than a Windsor box hedge. He was starting to get the hang of it though.

Like the rest of the house, the bathroom was frugal but tidy. Green tiles covered the lower half of the walls, white wallpaper the rest. A tiny window above the bathtub let in the early morning sun, throwing a square of light on the bathroom floor. There were no cupboards, no shelves, only an old wooden chest that held the towels. Soap, toothpaste and Mattie’s shampoo stood on a rickety little table.

Dean leaned against the sink and stepped on the hem of his pants which where about two inches too long. Wearing Elmer’s clothes still felt weird but they did help him blend in.

Looking at his reflection in the mirror, Dean bit down a sigh. He felt like an extra in a period movie. Half-dressed, he wore his shirt open over an undershirt and let the suspenders dangle from his waist. Suspenders, for Christ’s sake.

Dean lifted his chin and scraped away the stubble along his jaw-line. He was wiping shaving cream from his chin when he heard the rustle of feathers.

Startled, Dean looked up at the mirror and saw Cas standing in the open door of the bathroom. Dean whipped around, heart soaring and then dropping ten floors as he saw the shape Cas was in.

Cas swayed on his feet, one hand holding on to the door-jamb, his other hanging limply by his side. The right sleeve of his trench-coat looked shredded and charred, like he’d stood next to a flamethrower. Worst of all though was Cas’s face, the bruise blackening his jaw, the ash crusting his split cheek, and the blood slowly dripping from his lip.

Dean dropped the towel and sprang forward, catching Cas just when he started to fall.

“Whoa,” Dean choked and slipped his shoulder under Cas’s arm, taking his weight. “Easy.”

Cas leaned on him, breathing hard but he managed to stay on his feet.

“Can you walk?” Dean grunted and Cas clutched his shoulder.

“Maybe.”

Dean dragged Cas across the bathroom and sat him down on the closed toilet seat. He took a brief look at Cas’s destroyed sleeve, then peeled off the trench-coat and dumped it into the bathtub. Cas’s right hand was black with soot but it didn’t seem burned. Fire had burned his Oxford shirt and bare skin showed under the holes. Cas’s wrist, showing at the open cuff, looked swollen and bruised.

Cas leaned back against the toilet’s water tank and groaned softly but at least he didn’t faint. Dean moved on autopilot, fetching clean towels from the chest and holding them under the running tap. All the while Cas didn’t move, he just sat there with his eyes closed. All the questions Dean wanted to ask remained stuck in his throat.

Folding a wet towel into a square, Dean knelt down between Cas’s legs and reached for his face. This close, he could smell the scorched cotton of Cas’s shirt and the iron tang of drying blood. Dean breathed the warmth radiating from Cas’s body, suddenly aware of his elbow brushing the inside of Cas’s thigh. _Close_ was the right word.

Dean felt his face flush, then told himself to cut the crap. He’d patched up dozens of people in his time, never wasting a thought on private space. Cas was no different. He touched the towel to Cas’s cheek, carefully dabbing at the dirt and blood. When Cas moaned and leaned his head against the cool towel, Dean winced and held his hand still.

On top of remodeling Cas’s jaw, it seemed like something had clawed at Cas’s face, tearing into his cheek and forehead. None of the cuts were deep but Cas still looked like he’d gone ten rounds with a meat grinder.

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean muttered. “What happened to you?”

“Raphael’s bloodhounds,” Cas said, his voice even more gravelly than usual. “I think I shook them.”

“And by bloodhounds you mean?”

“Angels sent to kill us.”

“Right.” Dean bit his lip and continued cleaning Cas’s face. “They did this to you?”

“No,” Cas said. “I tried to break through the barrier and I shredded my vessel.”

“Shredded your—” Dean began and trailed off. “Jesus.”

Cas closed his eyes again, his face pained and grey. “There are no breaches,” he breathed. “None. He sealed us in completely. I can’t even reach out for Heaven.”

He pulled in another breath, then bowed his head and, to Dean’s horror, pressed a hand over his eyes. Dean lowered the towel, Cas’s despair hitting him like a punch in the gut. The few times Cas had dropped in on them over the last months, he’d always been on edge, but Dean had never realized how tired he was. It felt like Cas was crumbling under his hands.

“I can’t stay here,” Cas murmured. “It’ll all fall apart.”

Before Dean knew what he was doing, he reached up and squeezed Cas’s shoulder. He was struggling for words when the creak of a floorboard made him turn. Alfred stood outside the bathroom, looking in at the scene with a frown. His gaze slipped from Cas’s beat-up face to Dean’s hand on his shoulder. Dean didn’t move. He stared Alfred down until he walked away, face pinched with distaste. He didn’t even ask who Cas was or where he’d come from.

Turning back, Dean ditched the soiled towel and reached for a fresh one. Gently, he shoved back Cas’s sleeve and exposed Cas’s swollen wrist and more abrasions on his arm.

“Can’t you heal?” he asked, feeling Cas’s fingers for broken bones.

“I already have,” Cas answered and turned his hand to give Dean better access.

“Damn.” Dean cursed his stupidity. Cas had torn up his body; what was he doing, padding him with wet towels? “Does this even help?”

Cas stiffened and Dean could see a muscle jump in his jaw. “Yes.” It was the first word that came out with something close to determination. Clenching his teeth, Dean wrapped a fresh, wet towel around Cas’s swollen wrist and stood.

“I got some 'shine in my room,” he said. “You want me to disinfect those scratches?”

“No.” Cas leaned back and curled his hand around his towel-covered wrist. “I’ll be fine.”

Dean would’ve liked a definition of ‘fine’ but he swallowed the question. Still shaken by Cas’s breakdown, he folded his arms over his chest. He worried that this was the last mishap in a long line of setbacks for Cas. _Things aren’t going well for me upstairs_. Cas’s words echoed in Dean’s head. All the times he’d demanded Cas’s help with soulless Sam suddenly weighed a lot heavier on his conscience.

“You shouldn’t have come after me,” Dean said before he could stop the words.

Cas didn’t look at him but his fingers twitched around the towel. “They said they’d kill you. From the way Raphael was talking, I thought I would already be too late.”

Dean’s heart skipped in spite of himself. Cas had talked about responsibilities so much, Dean had figured he and Sam ranked second place after the angel war. He accepted that, hell, he understood that. But now this? Did Cas really drop everything, lunging after Dean in the middle of conflict, without thinking, without wondering even if it was a trap? What did that mean?

With a sigh, Cas undid the towel and rotated his wrist. He sat up and slowly pulled back his shoulders, like a wind-up doll straightening out his limbs. By the time Cas put the towel into the sink, the bruise on his wrist had faded. The cuts on his face seemed to be closing too.

No matter how well Cas pulled himself together, though, Dean wouldn’t forget the bone-deep exhaustion he’d already betrayed. He had half a mind to yell at Cas for not calling for help sooner. But then, would there be anything Dean could do? Other than getting Cas trapped?

“Damn it, Cas,” Dean muttered. He sat down on the rim of the bathtub, suspenders clicking against the enamel. How did they always end up in the deepest shit imaginable?

Cas picked up one of the clean towels and held it out to him.

“What?” Dean asked.

“There,” Cas said and pointed to his own chin.

Dean frowned, touched his face and felt the smears of shaving cream. He grimaced, took the towel from Cas and cleaned up.

“So what now?” he asked, tossing the towel into the sink with the rest. He would have to get rid of them before Mattie saw the blood.

“I’ll search for other breaches,” Cas said and tugged at the holes in his torn sleeve.

“And rip yourself to shreds?” Dean glared “I don’t think so.” Cas opened his mouth to argue but Dean cut him short.

“You know Raphael,” he said. “There won’t be a breach. Only thing you’re going to find are those mercenary douchebags waiting to hack into you.”

“It’s likely,” Cas admitted and Dean nodded.

“Plan B then.”

Cas raised a brow. “I didn’t know we had a plan A.”

“Funny.”

“I’m learning.”

Dean tapped his thumbs on the bathtub’s edge. “So other than bashing your head against the barrier, what options do we have?”

Cas thought about it and shrugged. “We continue in this timeline until we catch up with the present.”

“Continue—,” Dean echoed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Cas I’ll be a hundred years old if we wait this out.”

“Chances are Raphael’s soldiers will find us and kill us long before that.”

“Awesome.”

Dean clenched his hands around the bathtub. The possibility of growing grey and old, waiting for decades until he could go home, scared him. What if he did die? Thinking that in this scenario he might not even see Sam again, Dean suddenly remembered an idea he’d had while fixing Mattie’s porch. “If we can’t break through the seal,” Dean asked. “Can it be broken from the outside?”

Cas looked at him sharply. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Perhaps. Raphael won’t expect anyone to try.”

Dean smiled. “We’re good, then,” he said and seeing Cas’s doubtful stare, added, “Sam will bust us out. Trust me, if anyone can swing a cross-time prison break, he will. He’ll get us back.”

Cas considered this and nodded. “He’ll try.”

“Winchesters don’t try,” Dean corrected and Cas rolled his eyes. He seemed to warm up to the idea though.

“Anything we can do to help him?” Dean asked. “Send out an intertemporal rocket flare or something?”

Cas shook his head. “No. But we should stay close to your place of impact.”

Dean nodded and stood, gathering up the dirty towels from the sink. “That’s what we’ll do then,” he said. “I’m sure Mattie can scare up another mattress.”

Going from the frown on his face, this part of the plan hadn’t made its way into Cas’s head yet. He looked around the bathroom as if he saw it for the first time, taking in the sink and bathtub and tiny window.

“What do we do?” he asked. “While we are waiting?”

Dean shrugged. “There are still some apples that need picking.”


	2. 2/3

**Week II**

Dean wracked his brain on how he could explain a second lodger to Mattie. It turned out he worried for nothing. Mattie took Cas in with no questions asked and she lectured her son on the concept of Christian charity. Not that her good intentions sold Alfred, but at least he grumbled quietly.

Cas, for his part, took to rural life like a duck to water. He followed Dean’s example and made himself useful around the house. His initiative was remarkable considering he had never done any work in his existence, much less farmwork. But Cas learned fast: some chores Dean had to explain, but others Cas absorbed by watching. By his third day, Cas already helped with the porch repairs, hammering nails like the best of them. Dean didn’t know what he had expected, but watching Cas roll up his sleeves and carry floorboards from the shed made him smile. He liked that Cas turned out to be a hands-on kind of guy—or—angel whatever. Now they only needed to steal some flowers from the governor’s garden and Mattie would be all set.

 

: : :

 

On a morning that broke under a white sky, Dean took two enamel mugs of coffee from Mattie’s kitchen and went outside. He found Cas at the back of Mattie’s garden, feeding the chicken. The birds clustered around his feet, clucking softly as Cas dropped a handful of seed between them.

Dean stopped at the edge of the garden, placed one coffee mug on a fence post and took a sip from the other. He meant to call out but something made him hold his tongue. Instead he took in the picture of Cas, lifting another fistful of birdfeed from a bucket while the chicken climbed over his shoes.

So damn focused, Cas reminded Dean of Sam at seven, his face all serious and concentrated while he cut action figures out of cereal boxes. Cas had that same prissy vibe going and Dean didn’t know if he wanted to roll his eyes or hug him. He’d forgotten what watching Cas did to him, how it turned everything upside down.

The first months of the apocalypse, when Cas had started to fall, Dean had caught himself tracking Cas’s every move, watching him from the corner of his eye as Cas tried to find his feet. Dean couldn’t figure him out. Why did Cas screw over Heaven? Why did he stay? Dean had asked these questions over and over and yet felt so damn grateful at the same time. Back then, Cas had been the only good thing in his life.

Dean wrapped his hands around his coffee, his eyes following the line of Cas’s back and the flash of his white shirt. Standing under the colorless sky, Cas looked so damn solid, every last detail of him picked out clearly. Dean wondered when was the last time he’d had a chance to see Cas like this, to see him _being there._

It had been a long time. It had been a year.

Realizing how little time they’d spent together throughout the last few months, how rarely they had talked, Dean felt the distance gape between them and it stretched a lot farther than the length of Mattie’s vegetable patch. As Cas tossed more feed to the chicken Dean recalled the night he and Sam had escaped Balthazar’s bizzaroverse. He saw Cas at the end of the alley again, all might and wings and gone in the space of two seconds. The memory still chafed and Dean felt, more than ever, how much he hated Cas’s vanishing routine.

His frustration baffled him though. Shouldn’t he be used to Cas’s stunts? Hell, Cas had been popping in and out of Dean’s life from day one. So what had changed? Why did he want to get up into Cas’s face every time he flapped off?

Because these days, Dean thought, if Cas left chance was he wouldn’t return.

 _We’ve got different priorities now. Sam’s walled-off soul. Civil war. I’m losing track of him_.

It came to Dean that Cas was slipping through his fingers, disappearing into Heaven and a warfare Dean never saw nor understood. The connection between them had frayed to a thread and the few times Cas stopped by, he was always already leaving. Dean had a feeling that Cas prepared his final exit but he’d done his level best to ignore the signs. He hadn’t acknowledged Cas’s long goodbye, maybe because he knew he couldn’t prevent it. He no longer had any right or reason to ask Cas to stay.

Losing Cas felt like the changing of seasons: You thought the fall would last forever and then one morning you woke up and all the leaves were gone from the trees.

Funny, then, that they should be marooned here together. Dean chewed at the inside of his lip and wondered at the future, the one that waited for them in their own time. He saw now how it would be: Cas would come and go until the day his luck ran out and he got himself killed on some unseen, unreachable battlefield. Dean wondered if he would even know, if one of the angels would tell him. No, he wouldn’t be able to save Cas, no more than he was able to carry water in a closed fist.

Here was different, though. Raphael’s scheme had frozen their forward motion and let Cas out of war’s chokehold. It might be an opportunity to brush up on their friendship, a chance to recapture some common ground. Dean decided to use it.

Picking up the coffee mugs, he crossed the garden and joined Cas amidst the clucking chicken.

“Getting flirty with the winged chicks?”

Cas raised a brow. “They are undemanding,” he said. “And very gentle.”

“Don’t let them get their hands on Tequila shots and a stripper, though,” Dean quipped and relished Cas’s I-don’t-get-your-reference face.

“Come on,” Dean said and held up the coffee. “Take a break.”

 

: : :

 

They settled down at the back the chicken coop, perching on overturned crates. Dean handed Cas one of the mugs and watched him blow on the tepid coffee. New and improved he might be but Cas still didn’t know that you only blew on stuff when it was steaming. Dean smiled. He took a swallow of his own coffee and watched Cas from the corner of his eye.

Dean had insisted Cas lose the trench coat and tie so he would blend in. As a result, Cas walked about in shirt-sleeves and dirty work-boots, again courtesy of Mattie. Cas played it well, never giving away that he was anything other than human. He’d even tanned a little, if you could believe it. So, yeah, he passed, for everyone except Dean. He could hear Cas stretch his wings sometimes, mostly in the evenings when he took over Dean’s vigil and watched the path to the wheat-field. 

At present, Cas balanced his coffee mug on one knee and stared blindly off into the distance. Dean knew the look. “You tuning in to any angel chatter?” he asked.

“No,” Cas said and refocused his attention on Dean. “I don’t hear anyone. My brothers are nowhere close.”

“You think they’ll come here? I don’t want to get Mattie into trouble."

“Neither do I,” Cas asserted. “Don’t worry. I don’t think they’ll find us. Their resources are diminished as well.”

Dean leaned against the coop, feeling his shirt catch on the rough wooden boards. The sky still hid behind a blanket of clouds and the air was stifling, charged with metal heat. It smelled like a storm was on the way. “Good thing they didn’t latch on to me in the first place,” Dean muttered.

Cas nodded his agreement. “They lost your trace while you fell through time. Because of the sigils, I think.”

“Tough luck.” Dean touched his ribs and wondered just how often Cas’s fineprint had saved his ass. “Hey, now they’re here, aren’t they as cut off as we are?”

Cas let out a bitter huff. “I’m sure they volunteered.”

Dean congratulated himself on his people skills, making friends all around, when something else occurred to him. “Wait a minute,” he said. “If I fell off the angel radar how did you find me?”

Cas drank his coffee and said nothing.

“Cas?” Dean asked, growing suspicious.

Gaze fixed on his knees, Cas pressed his lips into a line. “After Sam went to hell,” he began and Dean froze. “I added another sigil to your ribs. One that allows me to find you.”

Dean listened and filed away the things Cas didn’t say: That back in Cicero, he’d come to Dean and branded him without letting him know.

“No-one knows about it,” Cas added. “No-one else will be able to read it.”

Dean lifted his coffee for another sip and let Cas’s words sink in. He wanted to ask why Cas had sneaked into Lisa’s house instead of knocking on the door but then thought better of it. Cas would not have been welcome. He must have sensed it.

In all his time with Lisa and Ben Dean had never prayed to Cas, never tried to reach him. Cas, like Bobby, had been a walking reminder of Sam’s death and Dean had needed the distance in order to survive. Turning his back had worked so well he hadn’t even told Lisa about Cas. He didn’t know why, he’d spilled so many other facets of his life but he’d blanked out Cas. Rigorously, if he thought about it. Except there’d been that one time Lisa had confronted him after a specially hard night.

 _“Who’s Cas?”_

 _“What?”_

 _“You called out to him last night.”_

 _“I don’t remember.”_

 _“Who is he?”_

 _“Someone I knew.”_

Dean swirled the coffee in his mug. What should he have done? Going to Cicero, Dean had assumed that Cas had gone back to heaven, that he’d moved on. Now Cas revealed that he’d watched over Dean even then. It struck Dean that he’d missed a chance there. If he’d asked Cas to stay — but then what?

Dean pictured himself saying it. _Stick around because I like watching how you drink your coffee. That would’ve gone over well._

Once again Dean’s skin tightened with heat, that stupid on-the-inside blush that was half embarrassment and half hunger for he didn’t know what. He’d felt that before, yeah, it started almost as soon as Cas appeared on the scene but whatever caused his body to fire up at the sight of Cas, Dean had judged it out of place and way too complicated. Taking a shot at happiness with Lisa and Ben hadn’t come easy, either, but it had been something Dean could at least imagine. A home, a nuclear family: there were blueprints for that kind of life. The things he felt about Cas had no maps. Half the time Dean didn’t know where his head was at. He wanted Cas within reach because Cas had his back, because Cas believed in him, because Cas needed someone to fix his tie, and also because the idea of taking that tie off and licking a stripe up Cas’s throat ended with Dean jacking off in the shower. A year ago, Dean had preferred not to deal with the confusion. He wasn’t sure if he’d changed his mind.

The idea of Cas checking up on him in secret nagged at him though. For one, it hinted that Dean wasn’t the only one with unfinished business as regards to their friendship. ‘Profound bond’, whatever. Of course he wasn’t. Dean wasn’t stupid, he’d noticed the way Cas had looked at him and the sacrifices he’d made, not for the rest of humanity but for him. He knew that he mattered to Cas. But this moment, he needed to hear it. Maybe it was time to spell some things out.

“Why did you do it?” Dean asked and this time, Cas shot him a look.

“You know why.”

 _To protect me_ , Dean thought. _To find my sorry ass if something like this happened_. Cas had always meant well.

“You could have told me, you know,” Dean said.

“I didn’t think you’d approve,” came the quiet reply.

“You were wrong.”

“I don’t think so.” No judgment in his voice, at least none that Dean could detect. Cas kept his eyes trained so firmly on his knees, he must have been memorizing every fold and crease in his slacks. “I realize I didn’t say goodbye. I meant to come back, but time passes differently when I’m out of my vessel and I got caught up in everything that happened upstairs.”

Dean shrugged. “You were just trying to pick up your life.”

“So were you.”

“Yeah. I did a bang-up job too,” Dean said. His coffee had gone cold and sour and he poured the rest into the dirt, put the mug on the edge of his crate.

Cas propped his arms on his knees. “From what I saw, I thought you did well enough.”

“I did for a while.” Dean watched an ant climb his mug and remembered handing Lisa a coffee-to-go before she headed off to her Yoga lessons. “How about you? Did you get to kick back at the homestead?”

“As you say, for a little while. Yes, maybe,” Cas said. “At first my brothers and sisters were... shellshocked. Surprised that we actually stopped the apocalypse. I thought to use their surprise to show them a better way.” Cas leaned over and scooped the ant onto his finger before it could drop into the coffee dregs of Dean’s mug. Carefully he put it back onto the ground. “Turned out Raphael had the same idea.”

“So no welcoming feast for the prodigal son?”

“No.”

Dean thought of his year with Lisa and Ben, the way they had pieced him back together, providing the room he needed to heal, and wished Cas had at least got whatever the celestial equivalent of a good backyard barbecue was. He must’ve needed a safe harbor as badly as Dean.

After the showdown, both of them had tried to make a home in the spaces that should have fit them. A man with a family, an angel in Heaven. Yet it didn’t work out, for either of them. So here they were again, right on the edge of the fiery pit, their service extended indefinitely. Question was, were they still in it together?

“Cas,” Dean began, tilted his head to face Cas better, to get Cas to look at him. “I know we’ve been rubbing each other the wrong way lately but we’re still — We’re friends, right?”

Cas met his gaze, considering, then his mouth pulled into a small smile. “Yes. We’re friends.”

Dean smiled back and something that had clenched inside him eased. He relaxed back against the chicken coop and crossed his legs at the ankles. _Don’t mess this up,_ he thought. Out loud he said, “ _So_ good we talked about this.”

Dean cringed even as the words left his mouth. Goddamn, could he not switch off his smart-mouth for five frigging minutes? Eyes narrowed, Cas stared at Dean like he expected some kind of meaningful follow-up and that didn’t make it better.

“Was this ‘a moment’?” Cas asked.

Dean felt his mouth twitch. “’Fraid so.”

“Is it over?”

“Man, I hope so,” Dean blurted and bit his tongue but Cas, unpredictable force of nature that he was, just held out his coffee and tilted the mug in salute. Dean chuckled and rapped his knuckles against the enamel.

“Cheers.”

 

: : :

 

The storm was a long time coming but as evening approached, Dean finally heard thunder rumbling in the distance. Tree-branches brushing against his back he climbed down the ladder with a full harvesting bag slung over his shoulder. He’d picked apples all afternoon and could feel every single muscle in his legs and shoulders.

Once his feet touched the ground, Dean set the bag on the ground and stretched his back. Flakes of bark trickled down his skin and the collar of his shirt scratched against a strip of sunburn on his nape. Dean looked around, saw Cas wedged in the crown of another tree, and whistled. Between them, they had picked a cartload of apples and they still needed to get them stored before the storm hit. Dean lugged his apples to Mattie’s pickup, emptied the harvest bag into the prepared crates and waited for Cas to join him.

 

: : :

 

In the past, Mattie had sold her apples to the White Mountain cider company near Jefferson City but without the hired help she couldn’t even pick the trees this year. When they set out, Dean doubted he and Cas could harvest the whole orchard but they made good time, working their way along the rows. Dean had gone fruit-picking before when John had them lay off the hunt to earn money. He didn’t like the work then but now wasn’t too bad. Apples didn’t try to kill you and Mattie deserved a break.

Of course they’d be done inside a minute if Cas simply zapped the apples from the trees into the shed but a blitz-harvest would draw attention and they had to keep a low profile. Cas’s dick brothers still searched the globe for them and any miracle work on Cas’s part would flash out like a come-find-us beacon. Besides, Dean kind of enjoyed working hand-in-hand with Cas.

By the time they’d reached the picker’s shed, the thunder sounded closer. Dean and Cas plugged away in silence, unloading the Pickup and stacking crates of apples in the back of the shed. Although they’d propped open the doors, the air inside was thick with dust and heat. When the last crate was stacked, Dean pried the undershirt off his sticky back and felt tiny scraps of tree-bark and dirt trickle past the waistband of his slacks. Awesome.

His shirt hung on a nail by the window. Dean picked it up in passing, went out the door and felt the change in temperature immediately. A breeze went through the orchard, ruffled the apple leaves and blew cool air into Dean’s face.

Cas came to stand beside him and looked up at the iron sky, the clouds streaming in one direction.

“It’s going to rain soon,” Cas announced and Dean huffed a sigh of relief.

“Thank God,” he said and laughed when he caught Cas’s wry gaze. He used his shirt to wipe his clammy face.

“I think I want to stay outside,” Cas said and tipped his face up at the sky.

“Knock yourself out,” Dean huffed. “I want a damn couch.”

“You’re tired.”

Dean grimaced. “I’m getting old.”

“True.”

“Hey!”

“It is.”

“Yeah?” Dean asked and slung his shirt around his neck. “Well, screw you. This old man is heading home for his nightcap.”

Cas smiled and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Or.”

Before Dean could protest, the picker’s shed flicked out of sight and Dean balanced on the top of Mattie’s house. He would have dived off the roof headfirst if Cas hadn’t dragged him down to his butt and held him there.

“Whoa.” Dean stared wide-eyed at the sharply slanting shakes, heart squeezing up into his throat. Then he looked up.

The open country stretched out before him, deep gold fields and a tainted sky that looked like someone had dropped a vat of ink into a glass of water. Thunderheads were massing on the horizon and the wind combed the fields below in waves.

Taking in the vista Dean forgot about his racing pulse. He forgot about his urge to strangle Cas, too.

After his brain had processed that he wouldn’t die a horrible death by freefall, Dean turned around. With his legs drawn up and his arms crossed loosely on his knees, Cas perched on the roof like it was a perfectly common place to be: On top of a house with nothing but air and wind and clouds between them and the sky.

Dean stared at him, transfixed by Cas’s almost-smile and calm face. No trace of his war memories; he looked almost at peace. For a strange second, Dean thought about leaning over and kissing the corner of his eye, the fine lines there.

“You’re insane, you know that?” Dean asked.

Cas didn’t move. “So I’ve been told.”

Dean snorted. He braced both hands on the tiles, tested his balance and stretched out his legs.

Down in the fields, the trees by the riverbed bent with the wind. Mattie’s weathervane creaked and whirred and Dean’s skin prickled with the anticipation of the storm. As he watched, the clouds on the horizon discharged and chased sheets of rain along the countryside.

 

 **Week III**

Frank came by a few days later and said he’d ferry the apples to Jefferson City; he had some business in town anyway. He drove his pick-up into the orchard right up to the shed were Dean and Cas had stored the harvest. There’d been another thunderstorm in the night and the grass squelched under Dean’s boots as he hauled crates of apples from the shed. Between him, Cas, Mattie and Frank they had the truck loaded in no time.

When all was set, Mattie stood by the side of the truck and sighed. “It’s good of you boys to help,” she said. “But you know it doesn’t really matter anymore. All of this is going to be sold soon anyway.”

Dean knew. The farm had been in the red even before Elmer left and most of the land had been sold already. Mattie only had the house and the orchard now. Soon as business got used to the war, that would be gone to.

At first Dean had expected Alfred to pitch in, keep the farm going as long as possible, but Mattie’s son had no interest in preserving the family plot, he preferred his job at the post office. With his busted knee he wouldn’t be able to run the farm anyway. Which was why he pretended not to care about the sale, Dean suspected. It had to be hard for Alfred to give up his father’s legacy. Junior’s mean dog nature aside, Dean sympathized.

“A few more bucks won’t do any harm,” Dean said. “‘Sides, I don’t like sitting still.”

Mattie laughed. “I figured as much.”

Dean latched the back of Frank’s pick-up and turned to Cas. “You sure you don’t want to come?”

Cas raised a brow at the battered truck. “In that?”

Dean grinned. “You’ll be bored without me.”

Still smiling, Mattie patted Cas’s arm. “Don’t worry. We’ll find a way to pass the time.”

 

: : :

 

Frank and Dean delivered the apples to White Mountain and made it back to River around five. Cars didn’t run quite as fast as Dean was used to and the roads had a lot more bends.

Once they’d reached River, Frank took care of his errands, a bit of grocery shopping and a stop at Roy’s garage for spare parts. Dean waited by the car, leaning against the flatbed and watching the people mill up and down the street. His eyes kept tracking back to a recruitment poster in one of the shops’ windows. Captioned “Keep ‘Em Flying”, the poster showed a US bomber in front of the stars and stripes.

False River had a population of 694 souls. According to Mattie, only twelve young dudes had gone off to war. So far. Dean thought of Frank and struggled to remember when they would include young fathers in the draft. He couldn’t even contemplate what happened across the Atlantic. It made him think of Cas denying God’s death and Raphael’s reply.

 _Do you remember the 20 th century?_

Dean was still mulling over that depressing bit of pessimism when Frank came back, a cardboard box with fence nails wedged under his arm.

“You done?” Dean asked.

“Yep,” Frank answered and jerked his chin toward the bar across the street. “Want to grab a few before we head home?”

“Lead the way, Hoss.”

 

: : :

 

The bartender was a buddy of Frank’s and he kept the tap running. Before Dean knew it, he was on his third beer and dealing out a fresh hand of cards. People filled the joint as the clock ticked toward seven and cigarette smoke threaded the air. Frank sat between Dean and Lester the barkeep, a cancer stick wedged into the corner of his mouth. He took a look at the hand Dean had dealt him and quirked a brow.

“Your dinner invitation’s cancelled, friend.”

“No harsh feelings,” Dean replied and grinned over the rim of his beer. Lester and Frank were easy targets and Dean enjoyed the effortlessness of the game. He even let them win a time or two.

“I like mine just fine,” Lester commented his cards and clinked glasses with Dean. Yeah, it was shaping up to a nice evening. Party-pooping clientele not withstanding.

Sorting his cards, Dean shot a look over his shoulder to Alfred Cavender’s table. Alfred had come in half an hour ago with some guys Dean presumed were his colleagues. Cavender Junior kept his distance but he sent no small amount of poisonous looks Dean’s way. Dean couldn’t care less. It had been a while since he’d treated himself to a night on the town but he remembered how to let it all hang out. Much like riding a bike. You didn’t forget how to do that either.

“That’s it,” Frank announced. “I fold. And we—” He pointed at Dean. “—are taking off. The rate you gents are going, I’ll be out of home and hearth in an hour.”

“Good thing we’re not playing for money then,” Lester drawled and gathered the deck.

“We weren’t?” Dean quipped and Frank told him to take care of their bill.

“Reparation,” he said. “For mental cruelty.”

Dean followed Lester to the bar and paid with the last of his own money, hoping Lester wouldn’t look too closely at the bills. When he turned back, Frank already headed for the exit and Dean followed, threading his way through the tables.

If he hadn’t been in such a good mood, he would have paid better attention. As it was, Dean only noticed he went by Alfred’s table when Alfred stood up in front of him, blocking his way.

“Going home?” Alfred asked. The words came out slightly slurred and Dean’s high spirits went down the drain. He only needed one look at Alfred’s flushed cheeks to know he was trouble waiting to happen.

“As a matter of fact, yeah,” Dean said, forcing a smile. He tried to brush past Alfred but Alfred would have none of it. He grabbed Dean’s elbow and leaned in.

“I’m surprised,” he whispered, “to see you crawl out from under my mother’s skirt.”

Dean stifled the urge to clock him one. Barely. “Back off, chuckles,” he warned. “You don’t want to go down that road with me.”

Of course, Alfred ignored him. “What are you doing here?” he hissed. “Running away? Hiding?”

Dean breathed the booze on Alfred’s breath and counted to ten. He didn’t want to fight but it looked like Alfred was dead set on a brawl. Stupid bastard.

“You’re a coward,” Alfred continued, squeezed Dean’s arm and pulled him closer. “Good people are dying and you _pick_ _apples_.”

“Work needs doing,” Dean said and swallowed the ‘since you’re not doing it’ part. He reminded himself that this guy had just lost his father in the war. He should cut him some slack.

“She should turn you in,” Alfred rasped. “But she’s stupid enough to think you need protection.”

 _Then again_ , Dean thought, slipped out of Alfred’s grip, twisted Alfred’s arm behind his back and ran him headfirst into the table. Glasses fell and crashed to the floor. One of Alfred’s buddies cried out but Dean paid him no mind. He pinned Alfred on the table-top and leaned in close to his ear.

“Think what you want, I don’t give a shit. But you better don’t disrespect your mother in front of me.” Alfred struggled and Dean dug his elbow into his ribs for good measure. Young Cavender choked out a grunt and Dean let him go, ignoring the stares of everyone around them. He walked out of the bar not turning to see if Alfred got up or not.

 

: : :

 

Frank was quiet on the way home but at least he didn’t comment the Alfred incident. He dropped Dean off at Mattie’s house and leaned out of the car’s window. Dean could tell he wanted to say something other than goodbye.

“Alfred's got his reasons,” Frank said. "Maybe they ain't so good, but... "

Dean snorted. “Yeah. _But_.”

“I mean, he’s not thinking straight.” Frank frowned and fumbled with the words. “State he’s in, he might provoke trouble he has no way of handling.”

 _And by trouble you mean me_ , Dean thought. No doubt Frank looked at him different, like he was readjusting the picture he’d made of him. Like he should be careful around Dean, maybe. It was a look Dean had seen on other faces; Lisa’s being the most recent in a long line. He didn’t blame any of them but it still stung.

“Don’t worry,” he quipped. “It’s been a while since I killed a jerk.”

Frank looked like he wanted to laugh but thought better of it.

“Give my love to your girls,” Dean added because he felt contrary. He regretted his attitude the instant he saw the uneasiness deepen on Frank’s face. Frank nodded, gave a short wave of his hand and took off. Dean watched him leave and thought that it didn’t matter how far he strayed from his true life, it always caught up with him. Even seventy years into the past.

Raking a hand back through his hair, Dean turned for the house. Suddenly he very much wanted to see Cas. At least Cas knew all that Dean was and didn’t bounce a brow if he hulked out.

Dean heard the music as soon as he opened the front door. Clarinets and trumpets wafted out of the house and mixed with a burst of laughter. Mattie’s. A shaft of light fell from the kitchen into the hallway and Dean followed it inside.

Mattie and Cas sat at the kitchen table with half a dozen record sleeves spread between them. As always, Mattie’s record player stood on the counter and the music came from there, some swingy tune that sounded like it came straight out of the Great American Songbook.

When Dean entered, Mattie was pointing at one of the records.

“This was our favorite,” she explained. “Elmer gave it to me on our wedding day.” Cas leaned close to study the record’s cover but when Dean came in, they both looked up. Mattie smiled and Dean thought he saw Cas’s eyes crinkle a little, too.

“There you are,” Mattie exclaimed. “Did everything go well?”

“Yes, ma’am. Mission accomplished.” He pulled up a chair and sat down with them. His run-in with Alfred had leached the pleasure out of the evening but sitting in Mattie’s warm-bright kitchen, some of it came trickling back. Dean listened to the music spin, some cheeky tune that claimed ‘spring meant just one thing for little lovebirds’ and ‘we’re not above birds, let’s misbehave’.

“We’re listening to Mattie’s records,” Cas explained as if it weren’t obvious.

Dean scanned the titles on the records and nodded. “Yeah, she’s got some nice tunes.”

“Elmer was the collector,” Mattie said and touched the hat. “He loved his music so. And he could move his feet!” Her fingers trailed the rim of the fedora and Dean could see she was headed down memory lane. Most days Mattie did a good job tucking away her grief but now Dean could sense the sadness leaking through her defenses.

Cas noticed it, too. “Could you?” he asked.

Mattie chuckled, the dimples showing in her cheeks again. “You wouldn’t know it now, but back in the day I was a firecracker. Danced until my heels wore out.” She shook her head, tucking her silver-shot hair back behind her ear. “Been a long time though.”

Dean made his decision before she stopped talking. With the record launching into a clarinet solo, Dean stood, pushed back his chair and held his hand out to Mattie.

“Want to go for a spin?” he asked. Mattie’s eyes snapped up to him and Dean was aware of Cas quirking a brow. For the moment, he kept his attention fixed on Mattie though. “Don’t know how good I’ll be though,” Dean added and hooked a thumb into his suspender. His heart ached when Mattie’s whole face lit up in a way that made her look twenty years younger. She took his hand and flowed to her feet. “Oh, you have to bear with _me.”_

But he didn’t. As soon as they stepped away from the table it became clear that Mattie had plenty of spark left. So did Dean, much to his own surprise. He hadn’t danced in ages but it came back easy, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two, just like Donna taught him. He led Mattie across the kitchen floor, sent her out, swept her in, and the skirt of her flower-print housedress swirled. Mattie laughed again and her joy was catching. Dean twirled her and suddenly the music was louder. Looking over his shoulder, Dean saw Cas stretching for the record player. His fingers were still on the volume control.

Without thinking, Dean let go of Mattie and reached for Cas. “Come on, man, you too,” he said, grabbed Cas’s wrist and pulled him to his feet. Cas had his you-crazy-human look on but he came. Mattie made room and Dean took both Cas’s hands, showed him the footwork. Cas had his eyes fixed on their shoes, holding on to Dean with an unusually light grip.

“Easy, see?” Dean said and demonstrated. “It’s two triple steps and you rock back like this.”

“Like this?”

“Yeah. No, use your left.”

Cas went the wrong way, caught on and mirrored Dean perfectly. Mattie clapped her hands in delight and tapped Dean’s shoulder. “May I?”

Dean winked at Cas and let Mattie take over. “Be my guest.”

Lining up next to Cas, Mattie held his left hand and showed him a series of back and forth steps, first slow so he could watch and follow, then faster, catching up with the music. Cas fell in smoothly like he already had a year’s worth of dancing lessons under his belt. Dean shoved his hands into his pockets and fought the urge to butt in. It was a little like watching Cas fight, his moves all snap-quick and flowing, never a moment’s hesitation or self-consciousness. Flexing his fingers in his pockets, Dean could still feel Cas’s hands, skin warm and callused from scaling ladders and picking apples.

Mattie snatched the fedora off the table and sat in on Cas’s head, tilting it back so his messy black fringe showed under the brim. Cas smiled at her and turned her out like he’d seen Dean do it. When Mattie held out her hand, Dean took it and pulled her to his hip, their backs bumping into the table.

“Whoops.” Dean chuckled and let Mattie pull him into the middle of the kitchen. He knew no fancy moves and if he stumbled, he faked it until he found the beat again, spinning Mattie across the linoleum. Damn, he didn’t know when was the last time he’d let down his guard like this.

Two underarm turns and Dean wanted to pass Mattie on to Cas. When he tried to catch Cas’s eye, though, Dean noticed Cas was no longer watching them. Hat cocked back, Cas leaned against the counter and stared at the kitchen door, his face wiped clean of expression.

Dean followed Cas’s gaze and saw Alfred, standing in the doorway with his hands clenched into fists. The bruise on his left cheek stood out, a purple smudge marking his cheekbone where his face had hit the table. To say he looked angry would be an understatement.

Dean froze and Mattie twisted to look over her shoulder. She opened her mouth and Dean was sure she would invite Alfred to join them but when Mattie saw her son’s face, she numbed up and the words died on her lips. The song they’d been dancing to ended, leaving the scratch of the record needle to fill the room.

Mattie let go of Dean’s hands, patted his shoulder and crossed the kitchen to greet her son. “Freddie. Son, what happened to you?”

Alfred stared at Dean, then turned to his mother. “What is this?” he asked.

“We were in a silly mood, that’s all,” Mattie said and reached up to touch Alfred’s battered face but Alfred jerked his head away from her touch.

“You’re _dancing_ ,” he said coldly and Mattie flinched. “My father’s dead and you’re dancing.”

From his place by the table, Dean could see Mattie’s back go rigid and regretted bashing Alfred’s face. He should’ve kicked him in the nuts.

Alfred spared Dean another glare before he limped out of the kitchen, a dead-air silence settling in his wake. Mattie stared after her son, then turned, walked to the record player and turned it off, resetting the needle carefully in its cradle. Dean struggled for something to say but Cas beat him to it. He slipped the fedora off his head and touched Mattie’s arm.

“Mattie.”

“It’s all right.” She saw the hat in Cas’s hand and shoved gently at his wrist. “You keep it. It looks good on you.” Looking at Dean, she mustered another smile. “Thank you, boys.”

“You want us to make you some coffee?” Dean asked but she shook his head. Cas already drifted to the door.

“No honey,” Mattie said and started to gather up her records. “I’d rather be alone for a bit.”

“You got it.” Dean kissed her on the cheek and followed Cas outside.

 

: : :

 

Leaving Mattie, Dean and Cas migrated to the back porch. After a while, they could hear music from inside the kitchen again: A slower, sadder song this time, with strings and a woman crooning.

Dean sat down on the edge of the porch, pulled off his boots and put his bare feet on the lawn. The grass was cool between his toes, helped him calm down some. He decided throwing Alfred into the cesspit wouldn’t improve shit.

Cas sat next to him, pulled a face, then lay back on the porch-floor. He parked the hat on his stomach and gazed up at the eaves with half-lidded eyes.

“Where did you learn how to dance?” Cas asked.

“My babysitter,” Dean answered. “She had to practice for her prom.”

Listening to the music from the house, Cas tapped his fingers against the fedora’s brim and Dean remembered how he’d looked wearing that hat. Like Indiana Jones or something. His mouth quirked at the comparison.

“How about you?” Dean asked. “Did you log into the Matrix and download the lindy hop file?”

“I watched Mattie.”

Dean grinned, impossible to hold it back now. “You’re such a freak.”

After a while, the music faded into silence and the lights went out on the second floor of the house.  Dean and Cas sat in the dark, listening to the distant rushing of the fields and the faint sound of Mattie’s wind-chimes clinking on the corner of the porch.

A stronger wind gusted in from the garden, carrying the smell of lovage and lemon-balm. Shivering, Dean pulled up his legs and wrapped his arms around his knees. From the corner of his eye, he could still see Cas’s hand on the hat, his belly moving gently up and down with his breathing.

Dean pulled the inside of his lower-lip between his teeth, his heart booming a hollow surf-beat in his chest. Cas had closed his eyes but Dean was sure he noticed the looks Dean threw at him. They only pretended things wouldn’t happen like they always had. Like they would continue to do, not breaking their pattern of don’t ask, don’t tell.

The night breeze curled around the house, shook the oaktree in the yard, gusted under the porch and set the wind-chimes spinning. Cas opened his eyes and closed his hands on the hat, the flex of his fingers jumpstarting a spark of heat low in Dean’s belly. He leaned over or maybe Cas sat up first, Dean could never remember afterward. He knew it felt like giving into a pull and when he leaned his forehead against Cas’s, put his hand on the back of Cas’s neck, it felt like they fit. He could feel Cas’s breath on his face, warm exhales against his mouth, and stepped off the diving board.

Don’t think. Don’t stop. Just try this on for size.

A strange tingle starting up in his fingertips, Dean trailed down the line of buttons on Cas shirt, pinched a fold of cotton and pulled the shirt’s hem out of Cas’s pants. With their foreheads still touching, Dean could feel Cas’s breath hitch as he touched the strip of warm skin above Cas’s belt, his thumb running over rough hair. Cas put Elmer’s hat carefully aside before he reached up to trace the outline of Dean’s ear, a feather touch that sent a shiver down Dean’s back. Dean licked his lips and Cas sighed, brushed his nose against Dean’s cheek. Mattie’s music went on inside the kitchen again, the same track, and Dean’s skin was humming with it, hunger building in his stomach and his hands and lighting up his blood like striking matches.

He pushed off the porch and straddled Cas’s thigh in one fluid move, working the buckle of Cas’s belt and the button of his slacks. Cas hands dragged at Dean’s sleeves as he lay back, stretching out under Dean with his mouth parted and his eyes at half-mast, staring dazed up at the eaves. Dean felt his own cock press against his fly and bit down the urge to rub off on Cas’s leg, the small of his back cramped and tense and willing him to move. God, he wanted to mess Cas up. It was all he could think.

Fingers shaking now, Dean flipped open the button on Cas’s slacks, pulled down the zipper and shoved his hands inside his pants. He bit the inside of his lip, teeth finding the well-worried spot as he fitted his palm over Cas’s cock, a hard shape under his boxer shorts. Dean swallowed and could feel his damn throat click, his heart squeezing up out of his chest. He had a notion they were going too fast but Dean feared it would all go away if he slowed down.

He couldn’t stop, he didn’t want to now, not when Cas spread his legs and pulled up his dress shirt, exposed more naked skin and pushed his hard-on into Dean’s palm. Mattie’s broken-heart record kept spiraling in the background as Dean slipped his hand past the elastic band of Cas’s shorts and closed his fingers around Cas’s dick, all weight and warmth and taut skin. Cas whimpered and arched his back, pushed up on his elbows to look at Dean’s hand on him. Dean shifted closer, tugged Cas’s shorts down and started stroking, feeling Cas writhe with restless energy and need. He bucked his hips into Dean’s strokes, reached up, hooked his fingers around one of Dean’s suspenders and pulled. Lifting his thigh, Cas brushed cotton slacks and hard muscle against Dean’s balls and Dean moaned, reached back, hooked his hand under Cas’s knee and ground down on Cas’s thigh. He felt the suspender cut into his shoulder, Cas stretching the strap away from his nipple.

“Don’t let that snap,” Dean muttered and Cas huffed out a laugh, his body twitching as Dean twisted his hand around his cock. Dean felt a grin flicker over his own face and Cas laughed harder, tripping Dean’s heart into a somersault. Not to mention the sound went straight to Dean’s dick. He groaned and Cas came, his chuckle cut off by a choked cry and Dean wanted to pull that kind of noise out of him every fucking day of the year. He tightened his grip on Cas’s dick and Cas sat up in a rush, almost jostling Dean off balance. Dean dug his knees into the floorboards and a hand into Cas’s shoulder and went on stroking Cas through the aftershocks.

For a moment, Dean felt the wind again, trembling into his back as he slid his fist gently up and down Cas’s dick. Cas bumped his forehead against Dean’s shoulder and closed both hands on Dean’s suspenders like he needed to hold on to something. Wrapping an arm around Cas to steady himself, Dean felt Cas’s hands slide down the suspender straps to clutch at the folds of Dean’s pants. Cas’s back quivered with ragged breaths and blood rushed loud in Dean’s ears, white noise swelling like he was back in the grain-field or the field was inside him. He rocked down into Cas’s thigh and began rutting off against Cas in earnest until Cas dug his fingers into his hips and stopped him. Dean strained to keep moving but Cas rubbed his face against his neck and murmured. “Let me.”

Something slipped out of Dean’s mouth, then, it might have been “Holy fuck” but with everything that happened next, he didn’t really know.

 

: : :

 

Dean opened his eyes in the middle of the night, the sheets twisted under his stomach. He blinked, rubbed a hand over his eyes and turned, not sure what woke him. Then he saw: the bed was empty, no sign of Cas. No big deal. Dean knew Cas didn’t sleep so it figured he didn’t want to lie around until sunup. Only Dean had a notion that Cas slinking off after they’d wrapped their hands around each others’ cocks called for a friendly check-in. Call it a hunch.

Clamping down on the nervous flutter in his gut, Dean rolled out of bed and went in search of his clothes. He found a sweater hanging from the bedpost and his pants by the door. No socks, so he padded barefoot to the open window. Cas could be anywhere but Dean saw the flapping curtain and thought he knew where to look. He tucked the curtain out of the way and checked outside, first the garden, then the porch-roof beneath the window. Cas sat on the far side of that roof, his back to the house.

“Awesome,” Dean muttered, climbed out of the window and lowered himself onto the shake roof. Cas perched on the rim with his feet dangling over the edge and it made Dean dizzy just to look at him.

“What is it with you and rooftops?” he asked and sat down next to Cas. Keeping his legs pulled up and his feet firmly on the roof, thank you very much. The tar was still warm under his palms but the wind hadn’t let up and riffled Cas’s short hair. The moon was high and Dean could see a blanket of ground mist hovering over the fields, spreading out from the river.

Cas hadn’t moved an inch since Dean joined him. His hands were clasped between his knees and he stared at the fields but Dean doubted that he saw them. Cas had this little frown on his face that told Dean he was either deep in thought or killing goats with the power of his mind.

Dean propped one arm on his knee and wondered if Cas felt bad about what they did. It would surprise Dean because on the porch Cas had seemed quite happy with tonight’s development but then, a guy might have second thoughts.

Dean couldn’t say it warmed _his_ heart, thinking that maybe he’d ruined a friendship over a handjob.

“Something wrong?” Dean asked, trying to sound casual. Cas didn’t answer for so long, Dean braced himself for a letdown, convinced now that Cas would tell him they’d made a mistake. When Cas finally did speak, however, his answer came so far out of left field Dean didn’t even get it.

“When Raphael first told me he sent someone to kill you I didn’t think to go help you.”

Dean shifted. “That’s okay, man, you don’t have to come running every time I scrape my knee.  I can handle mys—”

“I didn’t care,” Cas continued, ignoring Dean’s protest. “I was in the middle of a war council. What happened to you seemed trivial compared to the challenge before me. I even ignored Sam’s prayers at first.”

 _I don’t believe you_ , Dean thought but Cas’s tone told him he wasn't guilt-tripping. He told the truth. Dean didn’t much care for confessions but it seemed like Cas needed to get it out of his system, so he bit his tongue. He got the feeling that he wouldn’t like what he was about to hear, though.

“Then I remembered,” Cas murmured and studied his hands between his knees. “I realized I was abandoning a friend and, if I didn’t act, you might be lost. I thought I had already missed the chance to protect you. It felt very bad.”

Dean recalled the first night in the orchard, Cas grabbing his shoulders like he wanted to burn another set of handprints into Dean’s skin. Now he knew why. Another breeze crept over Dean’s neck and he pulled the sleeves of his sweater over his hands.

“What’s happening to you?” he asked because this wasn’t like Cas. He might be an impatient son of a bitch, but he’d never been this erratic.

Cas shot him a look that was impossible to read. “I’m turning back into what I was the morning I was made. The first morning.”

The night air had already crept under Dean’s collar but this bit of information sucked the last of the bed-warmth off his skin. He stared at Cas, reminded that the creature next to him had been around for two thousand years or longer. It’s just Cas, he tried to tell himself, but that moment he thought he saw Cas’s wings again, dark as space and stretching out behind his back, blending into the night sky.

It made Dean uneasy as hell. Cas must’ve sensed it and for a second he looked almost wounded, as if Dean had renounced him. He hadn’t, it was just sometimes Cas’s otherness made him feel strange. That didn’t mean he would run, though. Dean hadn’t got hung up on the fact they were made from different stuff, not for a long time. But for a wonder Cas seemed thin-skinned enough to be bothered by their difference. Dean wanted to tell him it didn’t matter, tomayto, tomahto, but Cas turned away and Dean lost his courage.

It took a while until Cas continued, his voice quiet but flat somehow.

“When we’re not in our vessels. When we’re not here — ”

 _On earth, with people_ , Dean inferred.

“ — we become weightless. Fast. Focused.”

Angels outside their vessel, not even resembling a human shape anymore. Dean tried to picture it and thought of shooting stars, schools of silver fish shooting through a black sea. They’d probably be beautiful, he thought. Untouchable, too.

Beside him, Cas gazed down past his legs into the drop. He balanced so close on the brink Dean itched to pull him back. “At their core,” Cas explained, “angels are purpose and intent. We’re single-minded, especially when we’re fighting. It is how we are made.”

“But not you,” Dean said. “Come on, Cas, you’ve been thinking outside the box as long as Ii've known you.”

“I used to,” Cas agreed but he still looked at his knees, face pinched as if this was difficult, as if even talking about it was painful. “This last year, after I was brought back, I wanted to take all that I learned back to my brothers and sisters. I wanted to show them that we can decide our own path. That we can help if we want to, be more than emissaries.” He took a deep breath and lifted his head. “If they saw how it is to make choices and become involved — I thought they would embrace that freedom. I thought they’ve been waiting for it.”

Fat chance, Dean almost said but swallowed the words just in time. Cas was judging his kin by his own standards and it still baffled Dean that Cas didn’t get how unique he was. Or maybe he just didn’t want to see. He wanted to believe that he could rely on his family, that they would stand with him. Dean knew the feeling. He knew how it felt to lose that illusion, too.

“They might have come around,” Cas insisted and Dean ached for him. “But then we began to battle and they needed someone to follow or they would all have taken Raphael’s side.”

“Let me guess. No one to take the job but you?”

“More or less.”

Dean suspected the non-answer stood in for another story, but whatever it was, he wouldn’t hear it, not tonight and hopefully never. Cas had mentioned before that the war required him to do regrettable things. Dean remembered and pushed that can of worms way, way down.

“I never thought the war would last this long,” Cas admitted and Dean huffed.

“Yeah, people never do.” He searched Cas’s face. “But you’re still up on top, right? With all the firepower Balthazar gave you?”

“They’re not — ” Cas paused and shook his head. “The weapons help, yes, but compared to the power Raphael commands they’re toy swords.”

Dean bit his lip, trying to swallow the news. He’d assumed Balthazar’s arsenal put Cas in the lead. But if Heaven’s nuclear warheads didn’t stop Raphael, what chance did Cas have? “Christ,” he muttered. “How do you fight that?”

“I try to be quicker than him. Strike where he doesn’t expect it. Thin out his forces.”

“His troops outnumber yours?”

“Yes.”

 _By how many?_ Dean thought but didn’t dare to ask. God, he’d had it all wrong. He’d imagined Cas with an army at his command but now it sounded like he led a guerrilla force against the, what, nine spheres of Heaven?

“You should have told me,” Dean said, kicking himself for not asking.

Cas shrugged. “It would have been no use.”

“No use? Cas — ”

“It would have been no use to me.”

Dean clamped his mouth shut, thinking Cas dismissed his help out of hand, but when Cas turned to him, his face looked sad, like he wished Dean could make a difference. 

 _What would you do, then?_ Dean thought. _Chuck a salt shaker at Raphael’s head?_ The question sobered him. Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth and looked out over the garden, at a loss.

“Involving you would not be wise,” Cas said softly. “To be a match for Raphael I have to strip down to my essence. I have to take off all that weighs me down. My vessel, my… worry for you.”

He frowned. “At first I thought I could simply take back these parts of me when I’m not fighting. But it’s getting harder to remind myself to care. Down here, I have cues, reference points. Up there I’m untethered.”

A loose kite, Dean thought and felt his stomach clench. It confirmed his first instinct: Cas was slipping away. If he continued his war, Cas would end up as hollow as Sam without a soul, worse, because there would be nothing left of him, not even an outline of the person he used to be. A person, damnit.

Dean opened his mouth but he didn’t even know where to begin. His first impulse was to tell Cas to screw heaven, stay with him but the words didn’t come. The breeze picked up another notch and Dean could hear the weathervane creak on the roof again.

“I’m losing time,” Cas said. “You pray to me and I think you tried to reach me just a minute ago, there’s still time, I can finish this first. Then I go to you and I realize a week has passed. A month.”

His voice was still calm but when Dean turned to Cas, he saw that his hands clenched hard enough the veins stood out on their backs. Dean winced, his own fingers twitching on the wood. Don’t interrupt, he told himself. Let him have it out.

“One time when I gathered myself back into my vessel I was afraid that I had been gone for years and you and Sam, you’d be gone.”

This last bit came out so strained, Dean felt the sorrow crackle under Cas’s soft words. He watched a muscle jump in Cas’s jaw and his throat tightened hard enough it hurt to swallow.

“I want to pay more attention,” Cas said. “But I forget what reasons I had to be here, to be with you. To be something other than a shield or a sword.”

Dean forced his eyes away from Cas, stared at the fields instead and tried to understand that, bottom line, Cas had been screwed the second he got back home. He should have got some rest; instead he’d been honor bound to butt more heads. Some kind of reward, that. Or maybe it was what God intended with Cas’s return all along: To throw him back into the fray. New and improved and wiped clean, too. It made Dean so angry he could barely breathe. “You’re losing yourself,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady.

Cas closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping just that little bit. “I don’t want to.”

“Then fucking don’t,” Dean blurted and it hurt, goddamn but it hurt to know Cas was frightened. He snatched one of Cas’s hands and pressed it against his ribs, right over the sigils. Cas stared at him, eyes wide and startled and Dean tightened his grip on his hand.

“Don’t.”

Cas opened his mouth but it seemed he didn’t know how to respond. Dean willed him to understand. He didn’t want to go without him. Lose Cas to the war, lose him because Cas exorcized whatever passed for his soul to beat Raphael; Dean could accept neither option. He’d be a pain in Cas’s ass, yell at him to keep fighting, to keep his damn feet on the ground and not let anyone get the drop on him. If his yelling would be the one thing to anchor Cas, he’d scream his throat raw.

 _You better remember me. And you damn well remember who you are, too_.

Maybe it got through. Maybe it didn’t. Cas’s face softened and Dean had to look away but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of Cas’s hand.

After a while Cas let out a sigh that sounded almost relieved. He stroked his thumb along Dean’s side before he pulled his fingers gently out of Dean’s grip. Dean nodded and went back to watching the mist creep toward the house. Mattie’s wind chimes clinked softly, the sound drifting up from the porch. Dean watched Cas from the corner of his eye and thought some of the tension had left his shoulders.

“You turn into a blip of light, I tell you, I’ll be pissed.”

“A blip of light?” Cas repeated and his mouth stretched into a disbelieving smile.

“Celestial wavelength, whatever,” Dean grumbled and wrapped his arms around his midriff, the sleeves of his sweater pulled tight over his knuckles again.

Cas chuckled and swung his legs lightly in the empty air. “For you,” he said, “I’ll try not to be a blip.”

 

: : :

 

The next time Dean woke up, the sky was already paling outside the window. He blinked, disoriented until he realized he was in bed and Cas had stayed with him. They were both clothed and Dean all but spooned against Cas’s back, his arm thrown over Cas’s waist. He vaguely remembered nodding off on the roof last night and assumed Cas had zapped them both back to the bedroom. He didn’t recall cuddling up to Cas and it felt a little awkward, waking up this way. Cas seemed okay with it though; he could have moved away if he wanted.

Dean sighed and Cas shifted, his fingers brushing over the back of Dean’s hand. Smiling, Dean drew away and touched Cas’s hip.

“Cas, come on.” _Let’s get breakfast_ , was how he wanted to finish but then Cas turned around and his eyes were too light, lighter than Dean had ever seen them, washed out of blue and catching the first bit of sun. His hair stuck up at the side of his head and the pillow had printed a crease into his cheek and the details took Dean by surprise because he _liked_ how Cas looked, all loose and dishevelled and at ease. Cas reached over, idly picking at the frayed collar of Dean’s sweater and Dean’s stomach did a funny little jump. He inched closer and Cas met him halfway again, pressing his mouth against Dean’s, his eyes dropping shut and his hand settling on Dean’s waist.

Dean slung one arm around Cas’s neck and it struck him again how easily they fit, how their movements pinged off each other and one touch led seamlessly to the next. He’d thought — Well, he hadn’t thought at all but should this feel so comfortable? It unmoored him a little.

The kiss was slow at first, new, just tasting each other and finding out what felt good. Cas opened his mouth some and Dean responded in kind, running the tip of his tongue over Cas’s lower lip, his teeth. Cas hummed and Dean swallowed that noise, running his hand up into Cas’s hair. He could hear them kiss, the wet, sucking noises and their sharp breath puffing into the silence of the room.

Pushing his crotch against Cas’s thigh, Dean built a slow, steady friction that had him half-hard inside a heartbeat. He could feel Cas tugging at his clothes, smoothing one hand under Dean’s sweater, cradling Dean’s face with the other. They took turns stripping each other, getting back to kissing in between, Dean biting Cas’s jaw while Cas took off Dean’s pants. Dean wanted to get rid off his sweater but he only got it half way up his chest before Cas pinned his arms over his head and slid down, pressing kisses to Dean’s collarbone, his tattoo and nipping at his ribs.

Dean arched his back into Cas’s touch, the sweater bunched up to his armpits but he couldn’t take care of that now if he wanted to. Cas’s hand slid between his legs, trailing up the inside of his thigh and Dean’s fingers opened and closed on the hems of his too long sleeves. He felt Cas whisper more than he heard him, soft words sliding against Dean’s skin as Cas brushed his nose over the curve of his ribcage. He dropped a hand to Cas’s shoulder, squeezing the straining muscle there.

Cas pushed back up in a fluid move, stubble rasping against the side of Dean’s throat as he kept murmuring strings of Enochian. Fumbling for the back of Cas’s head, Dean carded his fingers through the thick, sleek mess of Cas’s hair. His dick curved hard against his belly and Cas ran his hand down the shaft, cupping Dean’s balls in his palm. Dean bucked his hips into the warmth and pressure and when Cas muttered something that sounded like a question, Dean said, “Yeah, go ahead.”

He rubbed his cheek against Cas’s temple, skin tight with want, but Cas froze. He lifted his head and stared at Dean, his cheeks flushed and eyes blinking in surprise. Dean wondered if Cas had even noticed that he was talking and he sure as hell hadn’t expected Dean to answer. Not that Dean had any idea what he had answered to. Going from the blush on Cas’s face, though, that Enochian might have been a running commentary of what Cas wanted to do to him and the thought pushed buttons Dean didn’t even know he had. Digging his fingers into the nape of Cas’s neck, he pulled Cas to him and sucked his lower-lip between his teeth. 

“Go ahead,” he repeated and Cas made a small, wrecked noise, pressed his forehead against Dean’s. Dean kneaded his thumb into the hollow of Cas’s shoulder and brought up his other hand to fist into Cas’s hair. If Cas wanted to do stuff to him, that was fine. If he wanted to take the wheel, that was more than fine. 

He had no idea where this came from. Also, in the next few minutes, he seriously rearranged his assumptions about Cas’s experience.

Dean knew that Cas had popped his cherry back when it still looked like Michael and Lucifer would deep-fry the planet. In Cas’s own words, he’d thought sex might distract him from his loss of faith. It had worked about as well as boozing his brains out. Not that Cas had talked about it in more than two sentences and Dean hadn’t pressed.

He’d always assumed Cas had been with a girl. Pressing his face into the pillow to hold back the noise, with Cas working first one, then two fingers into him, Dean thought he might have jumped to conclusions. By the time Cas turned Dean on his side and slotted against his back, Dean was so worked up he didn’t know what was up or down anymore. Using more spit to ease the way, Cas pushed in, his dick nowhere near slick enough but the lack of decent lube added just that slight bit of friction, burned a line of heat up along Dean’s spine and flushed his cheeks. When Cas reached around and took hold of Dean’s cock, Dean clenched his own hand around Cas’s fingers. He could feel a thin drop of sweat trickle down between his shoulder-blades and Cas licked it up, rolling his hips with a small, barely audible moan. His thrusts didn’t even go that deep, forcing Dean to focus on the slow drag, the matching rhythm of Cas’s hand, stroking up and down Dean’s cock until Dean forgot to breathe.

The position worked, man, did it work, but it wasn’t ideal. Cas untangled long enough to pull Dean to his knees and Dean used the chance to quickly slip off his sweater. Fully naked, he braced himself on the headboard and when Cas pushed in the next time, Dean pushed back, because damn, he wouldn’t break and he needed Cas, needed him all the way.

Cas cried out, finally on the far side of loosing control, hips stuttering and fingers digging into Dean’s waist. 

“Shh, shh,” Dean hushed him, groaned and swore, unable to keep quiet. It was too much, Cas inside and around him, his fingers laced around Dean’s cock and he wasn’t going to last, not one second.

Dean let go of the headboard and slapped his palm on the wall, fingers digging into the wallpaper, riding out the slow, rugged pace of Cas’s thrusts. There was this strange, bee-like buzz building at the base of his stomach, building just behind his balls until every cell in his body burned with a blinding edge and then just went on, whiting out everything else.

When Dean came, spilling over Cas’s fingers, Cas bit his shoulder. He then went on to use Dean’s come for lubrication, cock sliding in all the way on his next thrust. He shuffled closer, changed his angle and that was it that was it right there. Dean stifled another curse and reached back to dig his fingers into the meat of Cas’s thigh. Cas murmured his name, rhythm picking up until Cas bit out a shout, hips snapping twice more and all the way gone.

They sunk down onto the bed together, Cas draped over Dean’s back and his heartbeat thrumming against Dean’s shoulder. Dean breathed into his pillow, trying and failing to get a hold of himself. Feeling Cas’s dick rub against his ass, his own cock jerked feebly in response. Dean closed his eyes and waited while all the things he’d thought he knew about himself shook loose and failed to rearrange.

He was okay with that.

After a while, Cas picked himself up off Dean’s back. Dean turned, shifted around until they were face to face and kissed Cas again, open-mouthed and greedy. Cas kissed back just as hard, hands digging through Dean’s short hair, like he hadn’t had enough, not quite, not yet. 

When they came up for air, Dean smelled the sex on Cas which was ten sorts of amazing. Cas lay back and watched him, eyes dark and almost puzzled, like he couldn’t believe what they’d just done. That made two of them.

Dean swallowed. “We should do this more often.”

“Yes.”

When Cas touched the outline of Dean’s tattoo, Dean pulled him into the curve of his body. He hesitated, thought _what the hell_ , and wrapped his arm around Cas. Cas huffed a pleased sigh and buried his face in the curve of Dean’s neck. Trailing his fingers along the curve of Cas’s shoulder, Dean gave in to post-coital exhaustion which was about the only predictable reaction of this morning. He was drifting off when he heard the rooster crow outside, reminding him there was a day ahead of them.

Deciding the early bird could kiss his ass, Dean settled deeper into the pillow. On the second crow, however, Cas craned his neck and angled his head toward the noise. Dean frowned, then understood what was happening.

“You want to feed the chicken now, don’t you?”

“They’re waiting.”

Dean laughed out loud, canting his head back into the pillow. Cas watched him with his usual mix of amused exasperation and waited for the laughter to bubble out before he kissed Dean on the mouth.

“You’re strange.”

 

: : :

 

When Cas left for the chicken coop, Dean headed downstairs and fixed himself a strawberry jam sandwich in Mattie’s kitchen. Plate in hand, he sat down at the table and winced. A sore ass should be no reason to grin like a dope but Dean couldn’t help it.

He was taking his first bite when Mattie came in, wearing a loose cardigan over her housedress. She looked at him and smiled.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

Dean smiled back, chewed his bread and tried not to be obvious when he watched her. Mattie slept in a bedroom down the stairs but the walls inside the house weren’t exactly soundproof. Mattie was one of the most open-minded people Dean had ever met but thinking she might have overheard him and Cas, he did feel awkward.

Mattie gave nothing away though, pottering about and frying eggs and Dean decided she’d slept through the height of the bed-creaking action. He and Cas just needed to find a more private place for next time.

Next time.

Dean grinned again, blotted up a dollop of jam from the edge of his plate and licked his finger clean.


	3. 3/3

**Week IV**

On Tuesday, Dean badgered Cas to join him for a supply-run and after much eye-rolling, Cas agreed to come. In the end he liked the trip just fine, though, as Dean had known he would. They took Mattie’s Ford pickup and Cas kept his window cranked down and his eyes on the fields rolling by. Dean resisted the urge to put the pedal to the metal and see how fast this baby could go. If the motor fell out of the car, he’d never hear the end of it.

False River’s equivalent to Safeway was a grocery store on Main Street. _Boyd’s General Merchandise_ offered everything from sausages to broomsticks, the prices for each written in white paint on the glass-front windows. Inside, the store was a clean, orderly place with two recruitment posters hung side by side above the counter. A bunch of paper flags drooped in a jar next to the register.

Dean ticked off the items on Mattie’s grocery list, doing his best to ignore the shopkeeper who for some reason had given them the stink-eye the moment they walked through the door. Whoever said American small town people were a welcoming and kind-hearted breed had never been to an American small town.

Most of the shelves were well picked, especially those that held the basics like sugar or coffee. River wasn’t rationing yet but the supply chain had slowed to a dribble all the same. Dean scooped up box of laundry soap and put it in the cardboard crate he used as a shopping basket.

“What else is on the list?” he asked and Cas studied the scrap of paper Mattie had given them.

“Flour.”

Transferring the box to his left-arm, Dean went through the shelf that held baking supplies but found no flour, only a few cans of baking soda and a bag of Sun-Maid raisins.

“Shoot,” he muttered and walked over to the counter, Cas in tow. If possible, the shopkeeper’s visage soured further. His eyes narrowed, his nostrils quivered and Dean wracked his brain, thinking that he’d seen the guy before. He wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. Pointed chin, horn-rimmed specs, jug-ears: Dean should be able to place him but no, no dice.

“You got some flour in back?” Dean asked and watched the shopkeeper’s mouth turn down at the corner. If contempt had a temperature, Dean would be shock-frozen by now.

“We’re all out.”

Predictable answer, heart-warming delivery. Dean wanted to tell the dick just how much he appreciated the customer service, maybe ask how come he had such a sunny smile, but checked the impulse just in time. Low profile, he reminded himself. Low, low profile.

He paid for the groceries and turned for the exit, making way for a housewife who’d just stepped in with an empty basket. Dean and Cas were already at the door when Dean heard the woman ask for flour followed by the shopkeeper’s answer.

“Be right back.”

Frowning, Dean turned and saw the guy disappear into his storeroom and reappear with two packets of wheat flour. He took the woman’s money and wished her a good day.

Dean stood with his hand on the door-handle, perplexed until he suddenly remembered where he knew the shopkeeper from. He’d been one of the guys drinking with Alfred Cavender the night Dean whacked Alfred’s head on the table.

So that was the way the wind was blowing.

Clenching his teeth, Dean let go of the door and walked back to the counter, swerving around the housewife on her way out. The shopkeeper watched him come back without turning a hair.

“Guess the flour delivery came in sooner than you thought,” Dean said, keeping his voice carefully neutral. The prick didn’t even answer, just glared at him with that universal brand of fuck-you stare. All of that over one pup’s hurt pride. Cas joined them quietly, taking up position just beside Dean’s shoulder.

Dean thought he had two options now. He could either repeat last week’s performance and show Jugs a close close-up of his counter, or he could defuse one hell of an unsatisfactory situation. He decided for the latter. Listening to the voice of reason. Sam would be so proud.

“Come on,” Dean said, stretching his mouth into a smile even though it hurt his face to do so. “That flour is going into one heck of an apple pie and if that pie isn’t baked before sundown, it’ll be a sad, sad day.”

“Why don’t you and your friend get a room,” the shopkeeper suggested coldly. “I’m sure you won’t be sad then.”

If he’d punched Dean in the face, his delivery would not have been more effective. Dean froze as the barb sunk in and plain forgot how to speak. His loss for words brought a small, mean smile to the shopkeeper’s face and anger exploded in Dean’s chest, white and searing and blocking his throat even more tightly. 

“Why don’t you just get us the item we need?” Cas cut in and it was a very, very good thing that he did. Dean felt the sides of the crate give under his arm, he was clutching it that hard. He could see Jugs warm-up for another jibe but something in Cas’s eyes must have made him reconsider. He stood there with his narrow, well-tended hands on the counter and Dean could see he wanted to get away from them, that Cas made him uneasy. Later the guy might have wondered why he let Cas browbeat him like that but right then he stalked into his storeroom, got them a pound of flour and no more words were exchanged.

 

: : :

 

Outside, Dean was fuming. He came that close to going back in to hamstring that asshole and even as they walked to the car he thought he would have done the world and himself a big, big favor.

Cas looked back at the store, his face tight and irritated. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing. Come on.”

As they headed down the street, the shopkeeper’s smirk swam before Dean’s eyes and Dean wished he would’ve wiped it off his mug. He hated that the guy had blindsided him. For a split second Dean wondered how the news about him and Cas got around so fast but of course he knew.  Alfred. Had to be. Damn, he hadn’t realized Junior was watching them that closely.

On the other hand, maybe he should have seen it coming. Sure, him and Cas had tried to lower the volume but they weren’t subtle, exactly, and why should they be? If that uptight jerk couldn’t deal, that was his problem. Besides, Alfred hated Dean’s guts anyway. Being able to play the queer card must’ve made his day.

Still, it rankled. Dean had witnessed homophobia before, mostly in the form of ill-considered jokes that made Dean doubt the existence of intelligent life on earth. But Jugs’s tone had been downright hateful.

Dean reminded himself that this was the 1940s but even so Jugs’s hostility seemed dumb and out-of-date. Part of Dean knew better, but the day and age he lived in, it was easy to believe the old prejudices had worn thin. Especially if you were widely considered a red-blooded, heterosexual man. He’d also got used to the idea of same-sex relationships early on when he and Sam spent the summer with Caleb’s friends Else and Fran. Else, close to fifty back then, half-blind on one eye and completely blind on the other, could still bulls-eye a can on a ten yards distance and she taught Dean a thing or two about shooting. She and Fran weren’t even a rarity, not in the circles Dean moved in. Hunters were marginal people by default, that was one, but if you trusted a buddy to have your back, if you spent year in and year out in each others pockets, well, chances were that guy would come to mean more to you than a fleeting acquaintance. The hunters Dean knew, men and women both, never made a big deal of it. More pressing matters at hand maybe, than the question who shacked up with whom. That was one thing Dean appreciated about the hunting life.

By the time they reached Mattie’s pickup, the urge to feed Jug-ears his flour for breakfast had passed. Cas shot him another look but didn’t ask any more questions. They loaded the car and got in, sliding into the stale heat that had collected behind the closed windows. Dean jammed the keys into the ignition and exhaled a long breath. He didn’t feel angry anymore, only disappointed but then who was he kidding? Mattie aside, did he really think people were better here, that they wouldn’t judge and insult and hate? Same shit, different decade, that was all.

“I wish Sam would hurry,” Dean muttered. “We’re outstaying our welcome here.”

“That man seemed quite hostile,” Cas agreed and Dean snorted.

“Yeah, we’re still a long way to Stonewall.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“Do I usually?”

“Fair point.”

Dean chuckled and started the car. Screw it, what did he care about Alfred and his mooks? They were welcome to their bigotry and he hoped it shriveled up their dicks. Such a shame Andy wasn’t here, though. He could’ve planted some gay porn in the heads of Junior’s tea party to widen their horizon.

The pickup passed the town limits and headed down the country road, driving past pastures and cows. Cas relaxed into his seat and the hum of the engine under his hands and feet made Dean feel better. Driving always did.

 

: : :

 

On Sunday evening, Dean and Cas were on the way back from the wheat-field, passing through Mattie’s orchard to get back to the house. Mattie had threatened to hold back the food if they didn’t take the day off so they’d spent the last few hours in the shadow of an oaktree, watching the field for any sign of timelock-breaching activity. Or they had been watching for about thirty minutes. The rest of the time they’d been otherwise occupied. Dean shot a sideways look at Cas’s untucked shirt and grinned.

“What?” Cas asked.

“If you have to ask, I’m doing something wrong.”

Cas rolled his eyes but there was something so fond in the way he looked at Dean it made Dean feel funny. When Cas started to stuff his shirt back into his pants, Dean bumped his elbow.

“C’mon, leave it. We need a shower anyway.”

They were on the steps of the porch and Dean could see the reflection of white clouds in Mattie’s windows. No smell of apple-pie tonight but that was okay.

“You freckled,” Cas said and brushed his thumb over Dean’s cheek.

“One of my many charms,” Dean joked.

“I agree.” Cas smiled and Dean kissed him, one foot already on the porch-steps. God, Cas tasted good and he smelled like summer, like hay and sun-baked earth. Dean leaned in to him, lazy with warmth and sex and the slow slide and push of Cas’s mouth. He could get used to this.

 

: : :

 

Dean walked out of the bathroom with a towel around his neck when Alfred confronted him. He stepped out of the shadow of the hallway with his fist locked around the knob of his walking stick.

“I know what you do.”

Dean clenched his hand into the towel and counted to ten. He was clean and relaxed and had zero patience for Junior’s bullshit. “So I gather,” he drawled and shot Alfred a lewd look. “Jealous?”

Alfred flinched like he’d been slapped, his face blushing tomato red, his eyes wide and what? Scared? What did he think? That Dean would dry-hump him right there? Dean bit down on his anger but he couldn’t resist playing the jerk. He smiled, shrugged one shoulder. “Hey, if listening at doors gets you off, be my guest.”

“I want you off the farm.”

“And I want you to mind your own beeswax but life’s a bitch, you know it?” He brushed past Alfred and snorted when Alfred flailed to get out of his way.  “Don’t get your undies in a twist. We’ll be gone before you can light your torches.”

 

: : :

 

The next time Dean went into town, Cas didn’t want to come, saying he preferred to check the field again. He also preferred Mattie’s company over hospitable gents like Jugs. Dean didn’t blame him but he needed to get away from the farm for a spell. He liked the place well enough and spending time with Cas turned out to be the best thing since Zeppelin II but Dean still didn’t like staying in one place too long. 

The sun was already setting when Dean drove the pick-up down to River, meaning to have a couple of beers at the bar. Lester was there and set him up with a bottle of Schlitz. Dean sat down at the bar and talked to him, asking after news and Lester’s wheels. Last time they spoke, Lester had turned in his Studebaker at the garage. A regular lemon car, the Studebaker was Lester’s pride and frustration. Dean ragged him mercilessly and tried to ignore the deer-head that stared down at him from above the counter. More and more people came in until the joint was packed and the air blue with smoke.

Somewhere between beer three and four, Lester introduced Dean to his cousin T.J., a fence pole of a kid with bottle-thick glasses. Not much a one for conversation, T.J. challenged Dean for a game of pool. Not that Dean needed to be dragged. Turned out T.J. knew his way around a cue despite his specs and Dean made it just hard enough for the kid so T.J. could enjoy his victories. They were well into their second game, when the door opened and a group of men in suits and hats came in, a familiar face in the lead.

Dean clenched his jaw as the jug-eared douche from the grocery store took off his fedora and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Hat in hand, Jugs scanned the room, the others waiting behind him with their hands in their pockets. Dean skimmed the group but didn’t see Alfred Cavender. He began to hope Jugs was just looking for an empty table when his gaze met Dean’s and the guy frowned. He turned to the buddy left of him and talked rapidly, jerking his chin in Dean’s direction.

So much for an easy night out.

Dean leaned his billiard cue against the table and waited, counting the heads of Jugs’s group as they made their way across the bar. Four of them. Dean was almost insulted.

“Hey, don’t touch the table when I shoot,” T.J. complained, then caught the expression on Dean’s face. He turned to the men who were headed their way and frowned. When Jugs’s posse reached the pool table, Dean could see the fine film of sweat on Jugs’ face. His cheeks were flushed but his mouth was crimped tight like he’d stepped into something wet and brown. One of the men walked around Dean and took position just outside Dean’s field of vision. Dean’s hand strayed to the cue and he made himself stop. If things got really heated he didn’t trust himself not to bash Jugs’s head in and he wasn’t in the habit of killing humans. No matter how much they asked for it.

“We want a word with you,” Jugs said and apart from his sweating face, he managed to sound suitably horse-head-in-the-bed threatening. Dean was impressed.

“Yeah, I bet you do,” Dean said, seizing up Jugs’ back-up and gauging how difficult they would be. T.J. looked like he was about to open his mouth, then thought better of it. Dean wondered if he should beat Jugs’ henchmen down right here before they could herd him to some dark alley but he didn’t like fighting in bars. You could never tell which side the crowd would be on.

Dean put down his beer and had the pleasure to see Jugs flinch. Ignoring the guy who hovered behind his shoulder, Dean moved around the pool table.

“Let’s get this show on the road.”

As Dean headed for the door, Jugs’s people hurried to catch up with him, one of them following so close on Dean’s heels he could hear the guy breathing. Sidestepping a table, Dean saw Lester coming around the bar as if he wanted to step in their way. Dean caught Lester’s gaze and shook his head. If Lester intervened, if he called the sheriff, it would draw exactly the kind of attention Dean didn’t need. Better to deal with this quick and under the radar. He might even come out of it without too many scrapes. After all, it wasn’t his first rodeo.

 

: : :

 

Jugs and the Save Our Children division jostled him out of the bar and around the corner into, surprise, an alley. No points for creativity. It was a cul-de-sac, though, so they knew their business. Dean looked at the brick wall at the far end, the neatly lined-up trash cans and lack of graffiti and thought this had to be the cleanest place for a backstreet ambush he’d ever seen.

Small towns. Gotta love ‘em.

Jugs grabbed Dean’s arm just like Alfred had a few nights ago and Dean wasted no time. Spinning around, he took out Jugs with a left hook and knocked the glasses clean off his face. Using his momentum, he swept the feet out from under the nearest guy before one of the others got him in the back of the head with a bottle, glass smashing against Dean’s skull. Dean stumbled and hit his forehead on the brick-wall. Damn, they were serious. Dean had expected a bloody nose but now he wouldn’t be surprised if they pulled a knife on him. He regretted his decision to leave behind the cue.

Turning around, Dean saw one of them actually rolling up his sleeves as the other two closed in on Dean. Jugs at least was doubling-over, hands cupped over his bleeding nose.

Dean fumbled for the trash-cans at his back. His head hurt like a bitch and he began to feel woozy, not a good sign. If he wanted to walk out of here on his own two feet he had to take them out fast. As the first two came in reach, Dean grabbed a lid off one of the trash-cans and hit the nearest attacker in the face. Falling back, Dean could feel blood trickling into his eyebrow and wiped quickly at his face. He had the wall at his back so they couldn’t surround him but he also couldn’t run.

The guy who’d hit Dean in the head used the broken bottle to stab at Dean’s chest and Dean jumped out of reach. He crashed the tin lid up into the guy’s chin but jumping, he gave up his position against the wall. Dean swiveled to keep track of everyone but the guy in shirt sleeves had already cut behind him and locked an elbow around his throat. Dean dropped the lid but before he could pull free, Jugs came up and punched him in the stomach, a hard hit that would have dropped Dean if Jugs’ partner hadn’t clamped his arm around Dean’s windpipe.

Dean had time to hear a “Fucking faggot” hissed into his ear before Jugs hit him again, square in the kidneys this time. When the guy behind him let go, Dean collapsed to his knees and a heel between his shoulders slammed him face-first into the pavement.

One of them, Jugs or Shirt-Sleeves, kicked Dean and the foot caught him high in the ribcage. Dean curled up instinctively then threw up his arm to protect his head.

 _Don’t stay down. Never stay down in a fight._

He pushed up to his knees but one of the men drove his shoe-tip into the back of his thigh and Dean’s legs caved. He hit his chin, got another kick to his ribs, then someone stomped on the small of his back. Dean made himself as small as possible as the kicks rained down, pain exploding in his spine and thigh. The men above him were grunting now, out of breath and excited, caught in the rush.

“Get him in the ass.”

“Freak. What do you want with that T.J. kid, huh?”

Dean clenched his jaw and pulled his knees close to his chest. He couldn’t believe this. He couldn’t stomach the stupidity. All the people he got killed, the hells he set loose, and this was what they were going to lynch him for? The thought was barely out before one kick caught him in the temple and sent him sprawling on his back.

Dean gasped but couldn’t move anymore, his arm flopping limply. The throb at the back of his skull took over his whole head and blurred his vision, muffling even the sharper pain in his ribs and back. He flinched, expecting more foot stomps but for a wonder the men eased off. Dean could hear them breathing, the air rattling and bubbling in and out of Jugs’s broken nose. Had they done their damage?

Dean groaned and rolled over onto his stomach, nausea twisting his gut. He clawed at the ground and tried in vain to get up when the sound of footsteps penetrated the cotton-wad around his head. Dean turned his head and saw a man walk down the alley, his shape swimming in and out of focus. He seemed to wear a suit like the others, a brown one with a white shirt under the open sports coat and a fedora on his head. Dean watched him come closer, the sound of his shoes on the concrete echoing in Dean’s skull and for a second Dean thought he saw the shadows on the walls flow toward the newcomer. Darkness gathered behind his shoulders then spread out in two curved, many-feathered shapes.

The newcomer stopped in front of Dean, his wing-tipped shoes and the ironed creases of his slacks filling Dean’s vision. “I’m so screwed,” Dean muttered, tasting the blood trickling over his lip.

The angel crouched down on his haunches and Dean caught a glimpse of his face, eyes silver with the reflection of his grace.

“That you are.”

 

: : :

 

They dumped him in the back of a pickup and drove out of town, the tires rattling over uneven ground and Dean felt every bump like a new punch to his aching ribs. He blacked out a couple of times, jolting back to wakefulness when the car hit another pothole.

It wasn’t long until they stopped. Dean heard the slamming of car doors, multiple doors, so there had to be more than one car. Jugs opened the tailgate but it was the angel who stepped forward, leaning over Dean with his face hidden in the shadow of his hat. Dean closed his eyes and focused on his memory of Mattie’s grain-field, the sound of the wind shaking the wheat and the feel of the bristled ears brushing against his arms.

The angel touched his shoulder and leaned in, bringing his mouth close to Dean’s ear.

“Where is he?”

Dimly aware of the blood-soaked hair that stuck to the back of his skull, Dean thought of the shadow of clouds racing over the field. No power in the verse would get him to think of Cas and risk praying for him. He wouldn’t be the reason Cas walked into another trap.

The hand on his shoulder clamped down and Dean yelped, new pain ricocheting through his already sore limbs. 

“Call him,” the angel whispered as his thumb dug into the hollow above Dean’s collarbone. The pain was excruciating and it was about to get worse, Dean knew. He opened his eyes, willing the angel’s face into focus.

“Bite me.”

The angel paused, then tilted his head. “Very well.”

The grip on Dean’s shoulder let up only to be replaced by two fingertips pressed lightly to the center of his chest. Dean drew a breath but couldn’t brace himself for the agony that exploded all throughout his body. Invisible steel-cables clinched around his chest and back and legs, cutting into bruises and tender flesh, crushing bones. He screamed, feeling the angel’s hand slide inside him and a fist clench around his lungs.

It went on a long time or maybe only seconds. When the angel finally let go of him, Dean slumped in the back of the truck and felt the wetness on his face, not knowing if it was blood or tears.

“Impressive,” the angel said. “Stupid but impressive.” Through half-lidded eyes, Dean saw him step back from the car and call out. “Take him.”

Jugs and Shirt-Sleeves moved into view and Dean tried to scramble back into the bed of the truck. He didn’t get far. They hauled him from the car and out into a meadow, his feet dragging through the grass. Sandwiched between the two men, Dean caught a glimpse of the river to his left, fast-flowing water reflecting the moonlight. He could feel the cool air drifting up from the bank but he smelled nothing but blood and the sweat drenching Jugs’s suit. They dropped Dean at the foot of a tree and left him staring at the swaying crown. People moved quickly around him and the next second, one of them threw a rope over a thick oak-branch.

Someone pulled Dean to his feet and braced him with a hard arm around his back. Jugs. His mouth pulled down like the first time Dean had met him. Dean leaned against him, not feeling his legs or anything much below his fogged-up head.

People were watching him, he realized. Not just the angel and the four men from the alley but two more strangers. Grass nodding around their ankles, they waited with their feet planted apart like soldiers standing at attention. One of them even carried his angel sword in plain sight, hand clasped around the hilt. Dean wondered if Jugs knew who he was dealing with. He angled a look at the shopkeeper, whose chest rose and fell rapidly against Dean’s shoulder.

Jugs’s skin looked grey around his swollen nose as he watched Shirt-Sleeves knotting the end of the rope into a noose. When his friend finished, the shopkeeper’s body stiffened and his gaze flickered away. If it had been just him, he might have been too chicken to see it through. Shirt-Sleeves, on the other hand, didn’t waver. He pulled the noose down over Dean’s head and tugged it tight before he stepped back.

Dean touched the rope around his throat and nearly fell when Jugs let go of him. He wouldn’t get out of this, he thought He really wouldn’t.

They pulled him up without warning, the rope crushing his windpipe. Dean’s legs kicked, adrenalin shooting through his veins for a last moment of brilliant, agonizing clarity as he clawed at the rope. He gasped for air but couldn’t get any down his throat. They were still hoisting him up, his chest burning with the lack of oxygen, when the rope suddenly snapped.

Dean crashed to the ground knees first and drew a shallow, precious breath. The noose still sat to tight, though, and he fumbled at the rope, tugged, loosened it a little. Forehead pressed into the grass Dean lay there, panting, his chest clutching and seizing. He could hear someone yelling but the sound wobbled like noise under water. Careful, Dean turned his head.

The townfolk who had strung him up all stared in one direction, gaze glued to the man that walked toward them. The wind was at his back, the current blowing past him. Cas, too, carried a sword and there was something about him, some intensity that charged the air and made the grass crackle. Dean saw Jugs backing away, almost stumbling over his own feet. The shopkeeper managed about three steps then he and his friends crumpled to the ground like cut-string puppets. Only the angels remained standing.

Cas made his way to the tree without slowing and crouched down at Dean’s side. Dean flung out his hand and grabbed Cas’s wrist, struggling to get the words up his throat. 

“t’s a trap.”

Cas shot him a look, then returned his attention to the other angels.

“I know.”

Cas’s fingertips brushed the noose around Dean’s neck and Dean felt the rope frizzle and come apart. He covered his bruised Adam’s apple with one hand when Cas flowed to his feet and went to face Raphael’s hitmen. Dean looked after him, dazed, unable to lift a finger and fear for Cas opened a hole in his gut. 

Bodies tense and ready to pounce, the angels waited for Cas to come close. The one in the lead slipped a sword from his coat’s sleeve. “Castiel.”

“Nemiah.”

They charged without hesitation, Cas swiping at Nemiah’s chest and smoothly ducking the counter blow. Heart in his throat, Dean watched the other angels rush into the fight with raised blades, coming at Cas from two sides at once. Without even looking at them, Cas disappeared and popped up behind one of the angel’s backs, stabbing him between the shoulder-blades. Catching his opponent’s weapon with his free hand, Cas pushed the first angel into the arms of angel number two and used the confusion to cut his blade across his brother’s face. A pair of dying wings blazed white, tearing a gash into the meadow as Dean buried his face into the grass. When he looked again, Cas and Nemiah faced each other over the body, flakes of ash twirling up between them. The third angel pressed a hand over his face and blue grace seeped out between his fingers. 

Black dots swirled before Dean’s eyes and he realized it wasn’t just the bits of ash in the air, it was his vision failing. He blinked, willed himself to stay awake.

“He really is special to you,” Nemiah mused aloud and watched Cas like a weird insect. “Tell me. Did you put your hand in him yet? Or is he exempt?”

“Did you come here to talk?” Cas asked and Nemiah smiled.

“No.”

When they resumed, Dean started to drift off, the back of his head thudding with a steady, diminishing pulse. He heard the clanging of swords but weirdly noticed the crickets chirping too. The image of Cas fighting blurred as if a milky glass had come between them and Dean could only see the arc and sweep of his movements, fluid and precise. Dean’s eyes slipped shut and he remembered Cas dancing in Mattie’s kitchen, Capone hat tilted back on his head and smiling as he turned Mattie out. The crickets chirped louder, clicking and whirring close to Dean’s ear. Feeling the tips of the grass tickle his cheek, he was only half-aware of the second flash of light, quickly followed by a third. He heard the flap of wings like laundry snapping on a line, then someone knelt down beside him.

A hand settled on Dean’s shoulder, in the exact same spot Nemiah had gripped him earlier but instead of pain, a flood of warmth spread from the touch, seeped into his ribs and traveled up his neck. When the throbbing of his head finally eased, Dean let out the breath he’d been holding and fainted.

 

: : :

 

First thing he noticed when he came to was the absence of crickets. Instead, Dean heard a soft cracking, like chestnuts popping in a fire. Opening his eyes, he looked at a row of wheat, stalks bleached of color in the gloom.

At night, all fields were gray.

Dean took a breath and flinched but his throat didn’t hurt anymore. He touched his neck and belatedly realized he was sitting, propped against Cas’s chest with both of Cas’s arms locked tight around him. They were back in the field; the hanging tree had disappeared.

Dean shut his eyes and felt his neck for abrasions. He ran his fingertips over unblemished skin, back to his nape were the knot of the noose had dug into a knob of his spine. . Cas had healed him completely but he could still hear the men grunt as they beat him and smell the sweet-sour sweat coming from Jugs’s shirt. He tried to let it go. Water under the bridge.

Leaning back into the bracket of Cas’s knees, Dean focused at the sky above the field, the scattering of stars and the shreds of clouds that obscured them. Cas sat very still, a solid weight that held him together. Still Dean shivered, and instead of the rope he remembered Cas slashing the face of another angel without missing a beat, moving like his body was one weapon, a graceful extension of his blade.

 _I’m becoming what I was in the beginning._

Dean didn’t know why he thought of that now. Closing his hand on one of Cas’s arms, he could only feel how Cas hugged him too tight, how his heart beat too fast against his back. Cas had him. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“Thanks,” Dean rasped, throat painfully dry. He’d give a lot for a glass of water.

He was rolling the copper-taste of blood around on his tongue when he heard a sound like dry twigs snapping, followed by a tremor beneath Dean’s legs. It was the earth, shaking faintly like a drum, like someone banging their fist on a door. The wheat shuddered with every beat. Dean pressed his palm on the ground to feel it.

“It’s Sam,” Cas explained. “He’s breaking through.” His voice was calm as ever but his grip on Dean didn’t ease. “It’s why I came looking for you.”

Dean said nothing, covering Cas’s hand and threading their fingers together until he felt the familiar rush of the wormhole.

 

 **Da Capo**

As far as homecomings went, Dean’s lacked style. His feet no sooner touched down in 2011 than he turned over and hurled on the loading dock floor.

“Dean!” Sam cried out and damn if it wasn’t good to hear him, Dean thought and retched some more. Cas stood next to him, his hand warm on Dean’s back until Sam rushed up to them and clutched Dean’s shoulders.

“Dean! Hey, you okay?”

“Peachy,” Dean muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The pure relief on Sam’s face made him smile though.

“Cas?” Sam asked, his hand still clenched on Dean’s sleeve as if he feared Dean would disappear.

Cas nodded at Sam and for a moment, Dean could feel how they were a triangle again, each having the others’ back.

“I’m also fine. Thank you.”

“That is so beautiful I might actually cry.”  Turning, Dean saw Balthazar stroll toward them with his hand in his pockets. Shame he hadn’t been closer before. Dean could have thrown up over his shined shoes.

“Hello, sweet brother,” Balthazar said and ran his eyes up and down Cas. “Did you lose your coat?”

Cas didn’t answer and Dean had a blazing urge to kick out Balthazar’s kneecaps.

“He helped,” Sam whispered quickly. “Sorry. I ran out of ideas.”

“It’s okay,” Dean muttered back and squeezed Sam’s arm. “Thanks, man.”

“I’m sorry to break this up,” Balthazar continued, walked around them and slung an arm across Cas’s shoulders. “Heartwarming reunion, yadda yadda, but I’m afraid we have some business to attend to. You know, upstairs.”

Cas caught Dean’s gaze and Dean could feel the muscles clench in his jaw. The next second, Cas and Balthazar were gone, displaced air blowing paper trash off the dock.

 _Back to normal_ , Dean thought and his heart sank.

“Come on,” Sam said and patted him on the back. “Let’s get out of here.

 

 _21 August 1943_

The pickers’ cabin at the back of Mattie’s orchard hadn’t been used for a year or two and the cots had been stripped of sheets and pillows. Dean kept thinking he should bring a blanket but he always forgot. They didn’t need more than a mattress anyway.

Sprawling naked on his stomach, Dean lay on one of the cots and watched as Cas padded around the room in search of his second sock. He’d already put on his pants and shirt but that sock kept eluding him and it drove him batshit. His face was a perfect study of it-has-to-be-somewhere confusion.

Dean peered under the cot, snatched up the missing sock from the floor and slid it discreetly under his chest. Across the room, Cas was lifting old gunnysacks with his naked toes.

“All that kick-ass angel mojo and you got trouble locating a sock,” Dean mused.

Cas shot him a glare, frowned at the floor like it swallowed socks on purpose and came over. “You’re enjoying this.”

“You think?”

Reaching down, Dean ran his thumb over the instep of Cas’s foot and grinned. With a sigh, Cas crouched down on his haunches.

“I promised Mattie I would help her shell the peas for dinner.”

“Hm. Tough luck.”

Cas’s mouth twitched and his eyes full-on twinkled with amusement. He considered Dean’s face, the grin Dean made as provoking as possible, then Cas dropped the sock he’d already found on the cot and walked out of the cabin on bare feet.

 

 _Four days, sixty-eight years later_

A tree blocked the view from the motel window but the evening light still poured in, picking out the dust-motes that danced over the carpet. Dean ripped a page from the yearbook in his hands and tacked the picture of a missing boy to their evidence wall. He ran his eyes over newspaper clippings and map sections, concentrating so hard he didn’t hear Sam talking until he called Dean’s name twice.

“What?” Dean asked and turned around. Sam stood by the door, his messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

“I said I’m going back to the library,” Sam repeated. “If that Walker has been here before, they must have micro-fiched the older murders.”

“Yeah, good thinking,” Dean muttered, his gaze straying back to the wall. He could feel Sam seizing him up though, mother-hen laser eyes burning holes into his back.

“You sure you’re okay?” Sam asked.

“Dude, for the last time. I’m good.”

“Maybe we took the job too fast,” Sam said, ignoring Dean’s answer. “That time travel shit messes with your head, man. It’s okay to take a break.”

“It was the 40s, Sam, not hell,” Dean said, walked back to the table and opened his laptop. In truth, he welcomed the distraction. Working helped him box the memories of almost being lynched. He still got edgy when people on the street looked at him too long. And of course, there was that other thing, the change from waking up next to Cas to not knowing where he’d gone off to and if he was even breathing. Chances were Dean wouldn’t hear from him for weeks because, how had Cas put it, time moved different in Heaven. Just like it had on their little field trip.

Dean suppressed the urge to rub at his temple. All that days-like-seconds, weeks-like-days crap gave him headaches. He knew he’d been away for a month. Sam still believed they’d been gone for four days because that had been the time it took him to crack Raphael’s seal. One day Dean would set him straight but not just now.

“You know, I was just thinking,” Sam went on. “If we wrap up here, maybe we could head down to New Paltz.”

“What’s in New Paltz?” Dean asked and bit down a grin when he caught Sam’s oh-crap-busted flinch.

Sam hesitated, shifting the strap of his bag. “Don’t make a big deal of this,” he warned.

Dean raised a brow and Sam sighed. “It’s Sarah. You probably don’t remember but she’s—”

“The provenance girl,” Dean cut in. “Yeah, I remember. You guys stayed in touch?”

At this, Sam’s mouth twitched into a smile before he smoothed out his face. “We didn’t. I don’t know, she must have stumbled across my number on her phone or something. She wrote me a text a couple of days ago — ”

 _Two_ , Dean thought.

“ — and asked if I wanted to stop by next time we passed through. So, you know, I thought I could — ”

“ — get her naked?” Dean asked and had the pleasure of watching Sam blush like a school girl. 

“Jerk,” Sam mumbled and opened the door.

“Think you can hold out until we finish here?” Dean wanted to know. Sam flipped him off and was gone before Dean finished.

Chuckling, Dean leaned back in his chair and looked outside at the purple sky. The tree hid the view of the other roofs but Dean could still see the glow of the harbor lights bleed into the dusk. He slid the window open for a crack, letting in a waft of mild air and the briny smell of a seaside town.

Now that Sam was gone he no longer felt like going through police reports. Deciding to call it a day, he toed off his boots and headed over to his bed and his duffel on top.

Dean opened his bag and looked down at Elmer’s blue work-shirt, folded neatly on top of his spare pair of jeans. He felt bad because he didn’t have a chance to give it back to Mattie. What did she think when he and Cas didn’t come back? Once or twice Dean had been tempted to look her up, head over to Missouri to check what had become of the farm but in the end decided not to. If the place had changed or disappeared he didn’t want to know. He had a hard time holding on to the details as it was. Without Elmer’s shirt it would be impossible to prove the last month had even happened.

Dean touched the shirt’s sleeve and thought of Cas doing the dishes in Mattie’s kitchen, soaping and rinsing the plates so slowly it made Dean sleepy. 

 _It’s like counting sheep._

 _Go away, Dean._

 _No really, slow down. You make my head spin_.

Dean clenched his jaw, his hand pressing down on the shirt. More than the farm, he wanted to keep the memory of Cas changing from a worn-out soldier at the end of his resources to a guy who dozed away on a saggy cot with his clothes half on and half off. Dean thought, he knew, that for a short while Cas had been at peace in his own skin. But whenever Dean thought of Cas with his shirt rumpled and his hands soaked in dishwater, he also remembered the night Cas fought his brothers. The minute Cas had arrived at that meadow something had slipped into him, or spread from inside him, burning away every idle, peaceful fiber of his body and leaving what?

A shield. A sword.

The thing was, he’d looked perfect, like he was built for the sole purpose of cutting through his enemies. He’d looked _right_ and maybe he’d felt like that too. All this newness and improvedness was going to eat Cas up like a bushfire but it also turned him into a force to be reckoned with. Dean didn’t know how Cas would be able to pull back from that. With that question rolling round his head, he had a hard time going to sleep these days.

Dean dug through his clothes until he found the bottle of bourbon at the bottom and returned to the table. Pouring himself a shot, he clicked through the web until he found a site that streamed music. On a whim he typed in jazz, picked the first title that came up. He made it through the first few notes on the piano before he reached out and changed the radio tag to his default setting. For another second, the honey-and-smoke voice of Billie Holiday hovered in the room, then the station switched to classic rock and _Money Talks_ drowned out the echo of clinking wind-chimes. It gave Dean back a firm ground to stand on. He turned down the volume some, swallowed a mouthful of whiskey and stretched out his legs.

“Cas,” he said. “You listening?” He closed his eyes and, tasting the whiskey on his tongue, started talking, _Got a grip on that war yet? Want me to kick Balthazar’s ass for you?_

He prayed, he talked dirty, he bitched about missing Mattie’s pie and all the while he flung out kite-lines for Cas to hold on to.

 _fin_  
___________  
13/05/11

Beta by **auburnnothenna** & **eretria** **** ****


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